


Missing In Acton

by WastingYourGum



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!John, Case Fic, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, No such thing as Series 2, OT3, Stoic!Lestrade, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2012-05-06
Packaged: 2017-11-04 00:47:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 25,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WastingYourGum/pseuds/WastingYourGum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade unofficially checks out a lead for Sherlock and runs into a spot of bother. Can Sherlock and John find him in time and how will the D.I.'s disappearance affect their relationship with him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Fall in the Fog

**Author's Note:**

> (Written after S1 but before S2 - there is no Mrs Lestrade.)
> 
> Originally posted in response to a kinkmeme prompt asking for "BBC!Lestrade kidnapped and hurt and being all stoic and manly and secretly hurting but not giving in to the baddies, and then Sherlock and John rescue him and he keeps saying he's FINE, and then Sherlock rattles off why he isn't and John lists off his injuries and they take him home from the hospital and are very firm and cuddly by turns and there is much sexytiems to be had by all." Later cleaned up and posted at my livejournal and now also here.

Lestrade rubbed his eyes as he pulled up at the junction. The line of brake lights in front of him blurred through the fog.  
  
 _God, what a day..._  
  
London was being flooded with almost flawless counterfeit 20 pound notes. It had been one for the Fraud boys rather than Lestrade's team but this morning they'd finally found the man suspected of being the engraver, dead in an alley, with his mouth stuffed full of his own masterpieces.  
  
Of course giving Sherlock a murder scene like that had been like giving Sunny Delight to a hyperactive kid. Counterfeiting was "boring" - but a murder scene was a police-tape wrapped present.  
  
Sherlock had meticulously inspected the body and then run off yelling something about pencils, closely followed by John. John at least always had the decency to look apologetic when Sherlock did that. Lestrade was sorry he never got to spend more time talking to John than it took Sherlock to examine a body. He thought he would probably get on quite well with the doctor - all things considered.  
  
Sherlock had only been gone a few hours before he resurfaced and barged into Lestrade's office ranting about needing to find a warehouse near railway tracks with a bookies, a Thai restaurant and a dry cleaner within a few minutes walk.  
  
"You what?"  
  
"The mud on his shoes is from somewhere near a heavily used railway line. The stains on his clothes suggest a nearby Thai restaurant - maybe Cantonese - and a dry cleaners."  
  
"And the bookmakers?"  
  
"The _pencil_ , Lestrade!"  
  
"Sherlock - there must be a hundred places that could be!"  
  
 _And I'm looking at one right now..._ Lestrade thought as he glanced across the street at the shop fronts on this stretch of Acton High Street. Three stood out from the rest: 'Easy-Clean', 'William Hill', 'Bamboo Garden'; dry cleaner, bookies, Asian restaurant.  
  
Lestrade's stomach growled, reminding him he'd had practically nothing since mid-morning. _What the hell. I could just go for some Fried Rice..._  
  
As the lights changed and the traffic started moving again a handy parking space presented itself and Lestrade swung his car into it. As he looked up and down the street, waiting for a gap to nip across the road, he spotted a large derelict warehouse looming through the fog behind the shops. The smell from the 'Bamboo Garden' was now demanding a lot of his attention but he couldn't miss the noise as a train rumbled over the railway bridge at the lights he'd been sitting at.  
  
 _Hmm... Warehouse, railway tracks..._ Lestrade shook his head. _Yeah, right... Acton's nothing but railways..._ He spotted his gap and went for it.  
  
 _And if it turns out this is the place and you didn't check it out?_ Lestrade halted on the pavement outside a newsagents. Damn it. Alright - five minutes and then he could cross one of the twelve thousand places that fit Sherlock's description off his list and get back to sorting out dinner - and he was bloody well going to have a Crispy Spring Roll too.  
  
A young man with a carry out bag exited the restaurant just in front of him. White, about 19, spiky haircut, skinny jeans, leather jacket. For a second Lestrade thought he was the delivery driver but something about him set off alarm bells. Lestrade might not have Sherlock's genius but he did have a gut instinct born of years of experience he could usually trust (at least until Sherlock pointed out why not). He watched the youth stroll up the street and then duck through a gap in the fence around the derelict building. Lestrade suspected he wasn't merely taking a short cut.  
  
The young man vanished round behind the building. Lestrade squeezed through the gap and followed him. The building was a huge wooden shed, surrounded by a sea of cracked concrete and weeds; out of use for at least twenty years he reckoned. As he got closer however, Lestrade could see that it wasn't as dark as he'd assumed. The windows had been blacked over to give that illusion but it was definitely lit inside.  
  
The ground floor doors were all locked and the windows completely covered but there was a fire escape on the end wall up to a door on the first floor that looked promising. Lestrade crept up it as silently as possible, the rusting metal groaning slightly under his weight. The door at the top was also locked but if he leaned over the balcony he could see in at a window with a few chips missing from the paint across the pane.  
  
The warehouse was completely gutted - just one big open space. In the shadows at the far end he could just about see the young man he'd spotted earlier approaching a table with two other figures at it. They were hard to make out because of the powerful spot lights in the centre of the floor illuminating a large piece of machinery and a couple of portable generators. And on a pallet next to the machine...  
  
 _That is a lot of money..._ Lestrade swallowed the urge to whistle as he got out his mobile to call Donovan. _Sherlock's going to be his usual smug self about being right - and so miffed I found it before him... What the--?_  
  
The fire escape tilted under him as some of the struts holding it to the building suddenly came away. Lestrade swore as he dropped his phone and grabbed onto the railing. A large piece of it snapped off in his hand and he swayed precariously on the edge before the whole stair lurched the other way and he toppled backwards. His head smacked off the platform and he tumbled off to the side as the stairs completely collapsed. He was unconscious before he even hit the ground...


	2. What have we here?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The counterfeiters try to work out who their mystery guest is...

  
"...idn't have anything on him except this wallet - it was empty already, I swear to God."  
  
The voice gradually drifted in and out over the white noise inside Lestrade's head, like he was tuning a radio. It came from somewhere above, behind and to his right.  
  
Other senses came back along with his hearing. Blindfold - cloth. Gag - also cloth, tasted of oil and sawdust. He was lying on his left side. His hands were secured behind him, but he couldn't tell what with; rope or tape or something, not cuffs. There was a throbbing pain in the back of his skull which must be where he hit his head when he fell. Was he still in the warehouse? It felt like wooden floorboards under his cheek - so maybe.  
  
"Bank card says 'G. Lestrade'. Think he's a copper?" The first voice again - sounded young, south London. Possibly the lad he'd followed in here.  
  
"Might be. Name certainly rings a bell." Older, deeper voice, same accent.  
  
"I fucking hate coppers. He's a fucking dead man if he's the filth."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, we know. They're all fascist bastards." The older voice sounded as if he'd heard it all a hundred times before. "No warrant card though?"  
  
"Naah."  
  
 _Bloody Sherlock must've nicked it again..._ Lestrade groaned as he realised he'd probably have to actually thank Sherlock for that next time he saw him.  
  
"Ey, ey - sounds like he's waking up. Why don't you ask him?"  
  
 _Bugger..._  
  
Footsteps came round to his front and the cloth was yanked from his mouth.  
  
"Oi, you a copper?"  
  
Lestrade coughed a few times but didn't answer. He was still weighing up his chances.  
  
A foot prodded him in his shoulder. "I asked you a question, you fucker - you with the police?"  
  
Lestrade shook his head - and instantly regretted it as the throbbing in his skull intensified. "No."  
  
There was a pause.  
  
"Liar." There was a sudden breath-robbing kick to his gut.  
  
Lestrade's knees came up as he curled in on himself and gasped for air. His assailant grabbed a handful of his shirt and jacket and lifted Lestrade off the ground before a vicious punch landed across his jaw. "Liar! You're a fucking pig, aren't you?" The copper tang of blood flooded Lestrade's mouth as the young man punched him again and again. He felt a cut open across his cheek from a ring on the young man's hand.  
  
"Hey! Leave it out!" Other footsteps hurried over and there was a brief scuffle. Lestrade fell heavily back to the floor as the young man let go of his clothes, presumably thanks to the older man intervening. "Get him up here. We'll soon find out."  
  
They grabbed Lestrade under his arms, one either side, and hauled him upright. He'd only just found his feet when they moved and he stumbled, trying to keep his balance as they walked backwards a few paces and then sat him down onto a bare metal chair.  
  
Lestrade hunched over, trying to relieve the pain in his stomach muscles from the earlier kick. His head was ringing and he felt sick.  
  
"Sit up!" A hand slapped him across the face - mercifully the opposite side from the one the young man had been punching.  
  
Another hand grabbed his hair from behind and pulled him upright. "Say cheese, Mister Lestrade," the young man sniggered. He pronounced it "le strayed" - as if Lestrade didn't hate him enough already.  
  
The blindfold was only partly effective and Lestrade was aware of a bright flash of light. They must have taken his photo. Mobile phone camera probably.  
  
"Right. We just need to wait for a bit. If he is from the Met I'm sure one of the lads will recognise him - even with that split lip you've given him."  
  
The young man leaned in close to Lestrade's ear and whispered nastily, "If he is a copper, I'll give him a damn sight more than that..."


	3. "Who's Di Lestrade?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they find out who he is, the next question becomes - what to do with him?

Lestrade gingerly prodded at his split lip with his tongue. He could smell the remnants of the takeaway food somewhere nearby but the sick feeling in his stomach was beating the hunger for the time being.  
  
"Way-ay lads! Is he awake then?"  
  
Lestrade turned his head as a new voice called from the far end of the warehouse. _Geordie accent... He's off his home patch..._  
  
"You took your time. Any luck?" the older voice grumbled.  
  
"Yep - found this singing to itself in the weeds outside," Geordie replied.  
  
"Aha - I thought he'd have a phone."  
  
"Open it up then," Young Man demanded. "His phone'll tell us who he works for even if he won't."  
  
"Nope - it's locked. Needs a password."  
  
There was a sudden blast of music and a buzzing noise from somewhere to Lestrade's left. Somebody crossed over to it and it abruptly cut off.  
  
"You've got a text," Geordie said. "...Di Lestrade? Who the hell's she?"  
  
Lestrade's stomach stopped churning and instead sank to his shoes. He took a deep breath as a chill ran down his spine. _Here we go..._  
  
"Not 'Di', you muppet," Old Man snarled. "D. I. - as in Detective Inspector." He said Lestrade's title slowly, in the same tone of loathing Lestrade usually heard reserved for "Child Molester".  
  
"I told you he was police! I fucking told you!" Young Man screamed.  
  
Lestrade heard footsteps charge across the room towards him. He barely had time to brace himself but instead of the punch he was expecting, thin fingers wrapped themselves round his throat, choking him. "You lying bastard!" The force of the young man's assault tipped the chair backwards leaving Lestrade's legs kicking uselessly against thin air. He was aware of the other two men shouting and trying to pull the young man off him. Spots danced behind Lestrade's eyes and his pulse pounded in his ears as he frantically thrashed, trying to escape the vice-like grip.  
  
He was on the verge of blacking out when the back legs of the chair slid out from under him. He fell heavily, with his hands still tied behind him. His lower left arm took most of his weight as it was trapped between his body and the side of the chair. There was a sickening crunch of breaking bone and an unbelievable burst of white-hot pain but Lestrade didn't have time to scream before all three men landed on top of him, crushing what little breath he had left out of him.  
  
The men scrambled up off him and Lestrade rolled over onto his side, coughing and gasping for breath. _Jesus Christ, that hurt!_ He gritted his teeth and screwed his eyes shut, fighting back tears and hoping the blindfold would catch any that escaped.  
  
"What the fuck is wrong is with you?!" Geordie was yelling. "Don't you know the hassle you get in if you kill a rozzer?"  
  
"And what do you think we should do, you thick Northern ponce? Let him go?"  
  
"Shut up, both of you!" Hands grabbed at Lestrade's shoulders, rolling him further over as Old Man looked at his arm. "Nobody kills anybody till I say so."  
  
"But we have to - we can't just let him go." Young Man sounded like he was pouting.  
  
"No..." Old Man agreed. "We'll have to move things up a bit. We'll dismantle everything tomorrow and stick him back under that fire escape before we collapse the building tomorrow night. With any luck they'll think it was just an accident and he was in the wrong place at the wrong time."  
  
"So what do we do with him until then?" Geordie asked.  
  
Old Man forced the cloth gag back into Lestrade's mouth. Lestrade struggled weakly, trying to twist his head away but even the slightest movement made his arm throb.  
  
"May as well leave him here. We'll be back first thing tomorrow."  
  
"What if he gets away?"  
  
Old Man sighed. He moved away and came back. Lestrade heard the clinking of a chain before his ankles were pushed together and he felt cold metal being wrapped around them. "There. Unless he can drag a two ton printing press with him, he's not going anywhere."  
  
"They must be looking for him."  
  
"I don't think so - not yet anyway. He's on his own and if he'd called it in and then not got back to them, the place'd be crawling with cops by now. I don't think anyone knows he's here. We'll ditch his car, turn his phone off and hopefully we can keep it that way - at least until tomorrow."  
  
Lestrade frowned behind his blindfold - he liked that car and one of his favourite CDs was in it. He couldn't fault the older man's reasoning though. Unless somebody tried to get hold of him, he wouldn't even be missed until he didn't show up for the 9am briefing.  
  
"I don't get it - how did he find us in the first place?" Young Man asked.  
  
"Good question. Tell you what - you can ask him in the morning."  
  
"Looking forward to it already..." Young Man's voice sounded much closer. He'd crouched down next to Lestrade.  
  
"Right. Let's go."  
  
"Sweet dreams, filth. You're mine tomorrow." Lestrade had no warning as Young Man suddenly grabbed a fistful of his hair and slammed his head off the floor, knocking him out instantly...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Geordie = someone from the Newcastle area in the North of England.


	4. Incommunicado

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock grows concerned when Lestrade drops off the radar...

"Who are you texting?" John asked.  
  
"Lestrade - again - I need to get hold of the stomach contents."  
  
If it had been anybody else but Sherlock, John would have assumed he meant a list rather than the actual contents. The thought of going to the fridge with an empty stomach to discover someone else's full one sitting there was not appealing, especially at this time of night.  
  
"Sherlock, it's nearly one in the morning. Lestrade will be asleep." _Like I should be..._  
  
"It'll take him two minutes to get me the authorisation."  
  
"Why do you need them anyway?"  
  
"Might help narrow down the list of restaurants."  
  
"Right."  
  
John went back to staring at the map. It was entirely possible the forger had lived miles from their base of operations but with no other reference he'd taken the dead man's flat as a starting point and was methodically working his way outwards from there. It was tedious in the extreme but at least he felt like he was doing _something_.

 _So, restaurant, bookies, dry cleaners, all near a railway line... Lucky Palace, 57 Station Road, Harlseden_ _\- definitely near a railway... yep.... And a bookies.... Ah, Coral Racing... 63 Station Road, brilliant... Dry Cleaners... dry cleaners..._ John sat back and sighed. _Nearest is almost a mile away... Damn..._  
  
He rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock again. _I really should go to bed... OK, just one more..._  
  
John traced his finger down the page and crossed off Lucky Palace.  
  
 _Bamboo Garden, High Street, Acton..._  
  
"John, call Lestrade and ask why he's not answering my texts."  
  
John looked over to the sofa. Sherlock was lying in the same position he'd been in for the past three hours, eyes still closed in deep thought, but now his hand was held out towards John with his mobile phone lying open on his palm.  
  
"He's not answering because he's asleep, Sherlock."  
  
"No, he puts his phone on his desk at the office and on his bedside table at home, less than 20 inches from his head in either case. The buzz it makes when it vibrates wakes him up. If I've already woken him up, why wouldn't he reply? Besides, he knows I'll just keep doing it until he responds."  
  
John got up, taking the opportunity to stretch tired muscles. He took the phone, scrolled through the address book to 'Lestrade' and hit the Dial button.  
  
The Inspector's gruff voice answered immediately. "This is Lestrade. I can't answer right now. Leave a message - I'll get back to you."  
  
"It's, umm, it's John, Inspector - John Watson," he added. "Sherlock needs you to--"  
  
"Did that go straight to voicemail?" Sherlock suddenly interrupted. His eyes were wide open and he was looking at John with a frown.  
  
John covered the phone with his hand. "Yes," he hissed, before taking his hand away again. "Sherlock needs the stomach contents--" he continued.  
  
"Something's wrong." Sherlock suddenly sprung up from the sofa, stepped across the coffee table and snatched the phone from John. He hung up the call and redialled. John heard the same message start again. Sherlock snapped the phone shut, shoved it in his pocket and headed for the door, grabbing his scarf and coat on the way out.  
  
"What? What's wrong?" John grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and followed him. "Sherlock?"  
  
He caught up with him at the front door. "Where are we going?"  
  
"Lestrade never turns his phone off for this long." Sherlock flagged down a passing taxi.   
  
"Maybe his battery is flat?"  
  
Sherlock climbed in to the cab. "He has a charger at his desk, in his car and at home. His phone battery is rarely even half drained."  
  
John got in next to him and buckled his seat belt. "You swipe his phone too, do you?"  
  
"Occasionally, but unlike his warrant card I put his phone back - so I can get hold of him."  
  
"Where to, gents?" the cabbie asked.  
  
Sherlock rattled off an address John didn't recognise.  
  
"So, where are we going?" John asked again.  
  
"Lestrade's."  
  
"Les-- You mean his _home_?"  
  
"Obviously his home, John. If he was at the station he would be checking his phone regularly and would notice if it wasn't charging. He'd have access to plenty of other chargers or batteries if his own was broken, therefore he's not in his office. His home is the next logical place to check. Most likely his battery has malfunctioned in some way."  
  
"I'm sure he'll be very grateful when we wake him up to tell him," John said sarcastically.  
  
"Of course this is all assuming his battery is flat - there is another possible explanation," Sherlock said.  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"Someone else has turned his phone off for him..."


	5. Alone in the Dark

When Lestrade came round again he was completely disoriented. He had no idea of the time. He couldn't see anything and he couldn't hear anything except his own shivering breathing. At first he thought he may still be unconscious or dreaming, not even awake - it was hard to tell. He tried to peer out from beneath the blindfold but it was pitch black.  
  
Something skittered across the floor in the distance. _Rats... great... I hope none of them are as hungry as I am..._  
  
He had plenty to think about - the pain in his arm, the pain in his head, how cold he was and how long it had been since he'd eaten anything bigger than a Polo mint.  
  
He was _not_ going to think about how long it was since he'd been to the Gents before leaving the station. _Nope, not thinking about it... Thank God I didn't even have time to grab a coffee yesterday afternoon..._  
  
He slowly flexed his neck, shoulders, back and leg muscles, trying to stretch without moving too much. "Bone-numbingly cold" was a phrase he'd used in the past but sadly that didn't seem to be the case now - he couldn't feel his hands and feet but there was still the hot, tight, grating pain in his arm.  
  
 _So they're going to drop the building on me... I might die of hypothermia and save them going to all that trouble..._  
  
Lestrade had a sudden bizarre mental image of Sherlock looking dispassionately down at his corpse lying in a pile of rubble and saying "Don't be so stupid, Anderson. That arm was clearly broken at least 18 hours before he died."  
  
Would he do that? Would Sherlock look at him like he was just another puzzle? Would he feel anything?  
  
 _Probably just annoyed they couldn't find a more inventive way of bumping me off..._  
  
He shivered again and bit down on the gag to try to stop his teeth chattering.  
  
 _I'm probably in shock... Where's a blanket when you need one?_  
  
That memory made him chuckle into the gag. Sherlock had looked so adorably bemused by the whole concept; Lestrade had had to jam his hands in his pockets to resist ruffling his hair.  
  
Of course he'd had to fight to keep his hands off Sherlock almost since they'd met. The man was almost obscenely beautiful. That long graceful body, those dark curls, the face, those eyes... Lestrade felt like a dirty old man every time they met and he was sure Sherlock must have noticed.  
  
Lestrade had always thought that if Sherlock was any way inclined it would be more towards his own sex but Sherlock didn't do "touchy-feely" stuff, and especially not with someone like Lestrade, who he heaped scorn on at every opportunity.  
  
But then Sherlock had stood there, in that ridiculous orange blanket, and started explaining why John was the shooter they should be looking for, before spotting the man in question and desperately back-tracking, trying to give Lestrade some complete crap about being in shock and not thinking clearly. _As if..._  
  
Lestrade knew Sherlock didn't hold his intellect in much regard but he thought he knew him better than that. He'd looked up every detail he could get his hands on about Dr John Watson as soon as he'd got back to the station from Lauriston Gardens; army doctor, recently discharged, crack shot...  
  
John had shot the cabbie to protect Sherlock; Sherlock had claimed to be wrong to protect John. Each action as extreme as the other - if you took into account the men in question - and that was how Lestrade knew Sherlock had fallen for John.  
  
John had apparently taken a little more time to come round to the idea but Lestrade had watched it happen with a sinking sense of inevitability and a disturbing streak of jealousy he hadn't known he was capable of. Arguing over corpses was far from a relationship but it was all he had; all Sherlock had - until John showed up. He couldn't blame John though - or Sherlock for that matter. There was something very intriguing about John's mix of softness and strength. Nice arse, too... Lestrade usually only had eyes for Sherlock but that didn't mean he was blind. He watched them both as they walked away, not just Sherlock.  
  
When the ballistics report had come back from the cabbie's shooting, Lestrade had had a long sleepless night, weighing up how much he wanted Sherlock to be happy versus how much he wanted Sherlock to be happy _with him and nobody else_. In the end though he'd done what he always knew he would; he carefully buried it - along with a small piece of himself he knew he'd never get back - and got on with his job.  
  
He couldn't stop shivering now and it was getting harder to stay awake. One last thought went through Lestrade's mind before he gave in to the darkness again...  
  
 _Unless I get very lucky, they might shortly be burying the rest of me..._


	6. Nobody's Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John arrive at Lestrade's flat where John learns a bit more about the missing D.I.

The cab pulled up just before two at a small nondescript block of flats in one of London's less fashionable leafy suburbs. They climbed the external stairs to the first floor and stopped outside a plain white door with no numbers or nameplate.  
  
"Don't bother." John's finger was an inch away from the bell when Sherlock unlocked the door and strode in as if he owned the place.  
  
"Sherlock!" John hurried in after him, closing the door as quietly as possible. "You'll give Lestrade a heart attack if you just sneak in!" he whispered urgently.  
  
"Of course I won't - he's used to it. Why do you think I have a key?" Sherlock replied matter-of-factly. "Doesn't matter anyway, he's not been home. Today's post is still there."  
  
John looked down. A couple of envelopes hung from the back of the letterbox. He pulled them free and set them on a small stand in the hall.  
  
Sherlock moved into the lounge and then through into the small kitchen, opening drawers and cupboards as he went. He pulled out a half-empty bottle of single malt whisky and frowned at it.  
  
John followed slowly behind him, experiencing a strange sort of déjà vu. The flat was neat, tidy - and completely soulless. This was where somebody ate and slept - it wasn't where they _lived_. He had had a flat just like it before he met Sherlock.  
  
The only really personal item he could see was a framed photograph on top of the television. At a glance it showed two young men standing on a beach. John turned it over - _Me and Pete, Brighton, '89_.  
  
He looked at the picture again. The two men looked to be in their early twenties. The man on the left had floppy blond hair which fell over soft blue eyes. He had an open face and a happy, relaxed smile. He was wearing a casual jacket and a shirt. His arm was draped possessively over the man on the right who was wearing a black leather jacket and a white t-shirt. He had short spiky black hair, dark eyes and a wide, cheeky grin that said he was trouble, but knew he was cute enough to be worth every bit of it.  
  
John was amazed. He'd never seen Lestrade smile like that - he either smiled sarcastically when Sherlock annoyed him or had a grim "somebody's about to be nicked" smile he reserved for the conclusion of cases. The rest of the time he just looked tired, harassed or confused; expressions John was growing very used to seeing on the faces around Sherlock. He'd never thought of Lestrade looking that happy... or that mischievous... or that _gorgeous_...  
  
"Lestrade was a very attractive young man, wasn't he?"  
  
John became aware Sherlock was watching him. He put the picture back down with a guilty start. "Uhh, yes.... Yes. Not that he's that bad now."  
  
"They must have made a striking couple."  
  
"Couple? You mean..? I thought he was a widower?"  
  
"It's a common perception and one he feels no need to correct. It's generally accurate other than the gender of his deceased partner and the fact there was no legal basis to their union at that time. Lestrade doesn't feel the need to share the fact he's gay with his colleagues. It's slightly more acceptable for younger officers now but much less so for a man of Lestrade's years and position. His career has already suffered for other reasons without that becoming common knowledge as well."  
  
"Suffered because of you, you mean?" John could have bitten his tongue. He regretted the words as soon as they were out.  
  
Sherlock didn't seem to mind. "Some people are more interested in procedure than results. They feel he is either cheating somehow or demeaning himself by asking for my assistance. It's absurdly narrow-minded."  
  
John glanced at the picture again. "When did his partner die?"  
  
"1991. He was attacked in the street. The official verdict was that it was a mugging that went wrong but even an idiot could see just from the case files that he was deliberately targeted. The attackers were never caught. Lestrade joined the Metropolitan Police Service a few months later and threw himself into the job. His strong work ethic, talent and determination helped him rise swiftly through the ranks."  
  
"Talent?" John looked sceptically at Sherlock. "This from the man who thinks all policemen are thick as two short planks?"  
  
"In general they are. Lestrade is smarter than most however, and he does have certain qualities that make his acquaintance useful from time to time."  
  
"Such as giving you a key to his flat and not throttling you when you text him at one in the morning?"  
  
"Among others."  
  
"And he's stayed single?"  
  
Sherlock adjusted the picture, making sure it was in the exact same position they had found it. "He has had occasional lovers over the years but none recently and never any long term relationships. I think at first he worried the risk of discovery was too great and now he feels he is too old to take up with someone new, even if he is attracted to them."  
  
John couldn't help but feel a swell of sympathy for the D.I. "He must be very lonely."  
  
Sherlock looked momentarily taken aback. "I... suppose," he said. "We should return to Baker Street. There's nothing here to indicate Lestrade's current whereabouts or why he's not answering his phone."  
  
John stifled a yawn. "Maybe he's had to go somewhere where there's no reception? Something on the Underground perhaps?"  
  
"The Underground would fall under the jurisdiction of the British Transport Police not the Met, John. Still, I'm sure he'll see fit to share with us in the morning if it's something interesting."  
  
"You're just annoyed he may be off somewhere having fun without you," John chuckled.  
  
Sherlock gave him a look and moved towards the door but John blocked his path. "John?"  
  
John slid his arms inside Sherlock's coat and round his slender body. He leaned his head against Sherlock's chest, feeling the soft fibres of Sherlock's scarf against his cheek.  
  
Sherlock stood there, unmoving. "You really are ridiculously sentimental sometimes, John."  
  
"I know. I just don't have to imagine too hard how Lestrade must have felt when he joined the police."  
  
Sherlock patted him awkwardly on the back which John took to mean _Neither do I..._  
  
"Right." John stepped back and tugged his jacket to straighten it. "Shall I call a cab?"  
  
"Do you have any idea where we are?" Sherlock smirked.  
  
"Ah."  
  
"As usual, you saw, but you didn't observe. Try the letters on the hall table, John..."


	7. A Rude Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The counterfeiters return the next morning.

_"Hey, Wurzel - get up, you lazy sod or I'm eating your breakfast." Lestrade lifted his head from the soft pillows. Pete was standing by the bedroom door, dressed only in his trousers, with the early morning sun glinting off his hair. He looked like an angel...  
  
"I'm tired, Pete... I want to stay here... Come join me, eh?"_  
  
"Wake up. Oi! Come on - wake up."  
  
Lestrade realised someone was rubbing his shoulders. Not hard, but enough to reawaken the throbbing in his arm and therefore the rest of him.  
  
Lestrade felt the hands leave his shoulders and move to the gag. He coughed and tried to spit as it was removed but his mouth felt like sandpaper.  
  
"Here. Y'can have the last of this."  
  
The Geordie...  
  
There was a hand lifting his head and something pressed against his lips; a polystyrene cup. The aroma of cheap coffee filled his senses. It was lukewarm and there were only a few mouthfuls left but it was like nectar.  
  
"You're like a bloody ice cube! Bit cold last night, I'll bet, eh?"  
  
Lestrade cautiously nodded. He had no idea if the man was even looking at him. There was a rattling sound and Lestrade realised the chain had been removed from round his ankles. He slowly stretched his legs. All the muscles in his calves and thighs protested at the movement - as did his bladder. He grunted uncomfortably and curled in on himself again.  
  
"What's he moaning about? Didn't like the room service?" Young Man asked.  
  
"Probably needs a slash," Geordie guessed.  
  
"I thought he'd've pissed himself already." Young Man laughed. "Maybe he doesn't know what I'm going to do to him later."  
  
"For the love of God... You - get over here and help me with this. You - sort him out," Old Man barked from further away.  
  
"Aw, what?" Geordie whined. "I'm not--"  
  
"You'll bloody well do as you're told! The pair of you! Now get on with it!"  
  
"Make sure he gives you proper London rates for a handjob, Mike - filth think they get a discount!" Young Man teased.  
  
"Bugger off, Davie."  
  
Geordie - Mike... Young lad - Davie... Lestrade carefully made note of the new information.  
  
"That lad's not right in the head," Mike muttered. "Come on you, up you come." He grabbed Lestrade under his right arm. The movement made the pain in his left arm flare bright and hot again. Lestrade gritted his teeth against it but as Mike hauled him upright, Lestrade's head spun and his legs buckled under him.  
  
"Whoops - alright. Give it a minute." Mike supported him under his shoulders until Lestrade was steadier, then he guided him forward about twenty steps and stopped. There was a strong smell of urine. Lestrade guessed this was where the men went themselves.  
  
"Lean forward - slowly."  
  
Lestrade did so and his forehead bumped up against a wall. He leaned his weight against it gratefully.  
  
"Can't believe I'm bloody doing this," Mike grumbled.  
  
Lestrade felt the Geordie's hands fumbling at his flies and then his zip was pulled down and a cold hand reached into his boxers. He tensed as the hand closed around his cock and pulled it out into the open.  
  
"Get on with it then. I'm not standing round holding your dick all day."  
  
Lestrade could feel his face flush with embarrassment. He was sure the Geordie's was probably the same. He tried to relax and seconds later felt an overwhelming sense of relief which made the awkwardness more than worth it - for him anyway. He let out a long sigh.  
  
"Huh." Mike snorted. "You really did need to go, didn't you?"  
  
"Like a bloody race horse," Lestrade croaked.  
  
Mike laughed and Lestrade allowed himself a small moment of hope. _Keep your sense of humour, don't let them dehumanise you, remind them you're a person too..._ Hostage survival manual, page one. The Geordie seemed to be the most sympathetic of the three. Davie was probably a non-starter but if he could get Mike on his side he may be able to win over the Old Man too.  
  
"Done?" Mike asked.  
  
"Yeah, thanks."  
  
Mike tucked him back into his trousers and zipped them up again. He wiped his hand down Lestrade's thigh before grabbing his arm again. They turned round and walked back to where they'd come from. Mike let go of his arm and Lestrade heard the chair being righted before he was turned round and sat down on it. He carefully swung his arms round behind the chair and slumped against it. His back was still bruised from his hard landing yesterday but it was better than leaning on his arm or sitting upright, which he didn't think he had the strength to do for long.  
  
Mike sat down somewhere to his right.  
  
"You, uh, you don't have anything to eat, do you?" Lestrade asked. "I'd hate to get killed on an empty stomach."  
  
"Sorry. There's the rest of last night's carry-out?"  
  
"That'd probably do me in quicker."  
  
Another laugh. Lestrade decided to risk it. "So you're not a local then. Newcastle? Gateshead?"  
  
"Up that way, yeah. And you're originally from the West Country somewhere."  
  
Lestrade was surprised. "How'd you know that?"  
  
"My ex-wife was from Bristol. Her voice was like yours - still had that _oo-ar_ twang to it if you listened."  
  
"Listen to you two poofs... One tug of his cock and you're swapping addresses already. Boss says it's time to shift the stuff." Davie was back.  
  
Lestrade heard Mike get up and move away. The young man put his hands on Lestrade's knees, fingers digging painfully into Lestrade's legs as he leaned on them.  
  
"And that means it's time for me and D.I. Lestrade to have that little chat... You ever seen _Reservoir Dogs_ , Mr Lestrade?"


	8. The Man in the Photograph

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John get a call from DS Donovan.

John went straight to bed when they got back in. Sherlock went back to his spot on the couch surrounded by the case notes for the murdered counterfeiter. He was still there, lying flat out with his hands tucked in supplication beneath his chin, when John staggered downstairs again, looking for breakfast.  
  
"Any luck?" John asked.  
  
"No. There's been nothing reported overnight that would have necessitated Lestrade's personal involvement - either that or it's something they're keeping out of the press."  
  
John gave Sherlock a knowing smile. "I meant the counterfeiting murder but I'll be sure to let Lestrade know how concerned you were. I'm sure he'll be touched."  
  
"Black, two sugars, John," was Sherlock's response as John shuffled across the lounge towards the kitchen.  
  
John's phone suddenly rang and he dug it out of his dressing gown pocket. He quickly glanced at the unfamiliar number on the display before answering the call. "Hello? Sergeant Donovan - good morning. What can I do for you?"  
  
Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he looked at John intently. "Donovan?"  
  
"Where is he?" Donovan asked.  
  
"Sherlock? He's here with me at the flat."  
  
"Not Sherlock - Lestrade! Was he with you two last night? When did you last see him?" There was a definite edge of concern to Donovan's voice but it was her forgetting to refer to Sherlock as "the Freak" that caught John's attention the most.  
  
"When we were at the station yesterday. Has something happened?" John asked.  
  
Sherlock sat up.  
  
There was a long sigh from the other end of the line. "I shouldn't do this, but under the circumstances... Share this and I _will_ kill you."  
  
John's phone made the sound for receiving a picture message. He flipped it round and couldn't stop the sharp inhalation of surprise.  
  
The picture wasn't great quality but clearly showed Lestrade blindfolded and with his hands behind his back. One side of his face was badly bruised and smeared with blood running from a deep cut across his cheek. The front of his shirt was also spattered with blood.  
  
Sherlock leapt up from the sofa, stepped over the coffee table, snatched the phone from John and peered at it. His face broke into a huge smile. "Brilliant! Oh, that's _brilliant_!" he cried out. He quickly tapped at the phone and his own phone chirruped from across the room.  
  
John stared at him in shock.  
  
Sherlock thrust John's phone back at him. "Look at the _background_ , John!"  
  
John did as instructed then held the phone up to his ear again.  
  
Donovan was seething. "Did he just say--"  
  
"He means there are lots of clues in the picture to tell us where Lestrade is," John said hurriedly. "He is not happy that Lestrade's been hurt. He's happy... he's happy it proves he's still alive."  
  
There was a long pause. "Fine. We were a bit worried when the D.I. didn't show up for the briefing this morning and then we found that on a phone belonging to some low life the Drugs squad picked up in a dawn raid. We're trying to track it back, find out where it originated. We haven't had any demands yet but I want you to drop everything else and start looking for Lestrade. Forget the counterfeiting stuff - that's my case now and you're getting nowhere near it as long as the Boss is missing. I don't like Sherlock and he knows it but I do like my boss, so, for _his_ sake, anything you need, you ask me for, OK?"  
  
"Got it. Can you email me the highest resolution of that picture you have?"  
  
"On its way. If we get more I'll send those on too."  
  
"I'll let you know as soon as we have anything, I promise."  
  
"You better. The entire Met is looking for his car," she continued. "I'll let you know when we find it."  
  
"OK. Sally?"  
  
"...Yes?"  
  
"I'm sure he'll be alright."  
  
"So am I. He's dealt with the Freak for five years, hasn't he? This'll probably feel like a holiday."  
  
Sherlock was carefully studying the picture on his own phone. John relayed to him what Donovan had said, except her parting shot.  
  
"No demands would imply they didn't kidnap him," Sherlock said. "They're not boasting, they're asking who he is - or _what_ he is. His wallet would have given them his name."  
  
"What about his warrant ca--?" John stopped and sighed. "You've got it, haven't you?"  
  
The card materialised between Sherlock's slender fingers. "Outside left coat pocket. Never inside - he deliberately makes it easy, doesn't want me getting too close," he muttered.  
  
"What will they do once they find out who he is?"  
  
"I'm sure someone has told them by now. They may keep him alive because they want to have him as a bargaining chip, or because they are squeamish about killing a police officer, or maybe because they want to torture him some more - possibly all three... or they may just have killed him. Why doesn't this phone have a decent zoom function? Where's your laptop?" He tossed the phone onto the sofa, strode over to the desk and opened John's computer.  
  
"So he's either dead already or having the shit kicked out of him and you're fine with that?" John snapped. "You'll just find somebody else to authorise your pick'n'mix sprees at the morgue?"  
  
Sherlock turned and met his eyes. "Contrary to what you might think, John, I do actually care about Lestrade," he said slowly. "But I cannot think of the man in that picture as being a man I care about, because that will get in the way of thinking about how to find him."  
  
John wasn't sure whether to be horrified or envious of Sherlock's ability to disassociate his feelings from the situation. "So, you'd be like this if it was me in that picture? If I was missing?"  
  
Sherlock seemed to sag slightly. "I... I would have to be. I couldn't... It would be too hard to..."  
  
John walked over and put his hand on Sherlock's arm to calm him. "It's alright. I'm sorry I asked. I know you would and I know why." His laptop beeped. "That'll be the email from Donovan." John put his finger under Sherlock's chin and tilted it up. "You see about getting the man in the picture back - I'll worry about Lestrade... and the coffee."  
  
"Thank you, John..."


	9. The First Cut Is The Deepest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davie starts his interrogation...

"You ever seen _Reservoir Dogs_ , Mr Lestrade?"  
  
Davie moved behind him and there was the unmistakable click of a knife. The blade scraped up Lestrade's right cheek, rasping against his day-old stubble before it came to rest just under his earlobe, where his ear joined his head. It drew back sharply, making a small cut and Lestrade felt the warm trickle of blood as it ran down his neck into his collar. Other than a small intake of breath he sat completely still and silent.  
  
"Don't worry - I'm not gonna slice your ears off." Davie patted Lestrade's head. "Wouldn't have nothing to hold up your blindfold then, would we?" he chuckled. "Now, the _good_ news is I'm not allowed to kill you, because the boss wants it to look like an accident..."  
  
 _Good luck with that... Sherlock'll take one look at me and know what brand of jeans you're wearing..._  
  
"The bad news..." Davie rested his forearms on Lestrade's shoulders and leaned over, resting his chin on top of Lestrade's head. "Is that includes even if you _beg_ me to kill you... and I plan on making you do just that." His arms shifted and Lestrade felt the tip of the knife flick open his top shirt button and make small circles on his chest.  
  
Davie suddenly stood up and wrenched Lestrade's suit jacket back off his shoulders. The jostling movement made pain radiate up his left arm. "Hello - what's this?" Davie grabbed Lestrade's left hand and twisted the ring off Lestrade's finger, causing a further jolt of pain that made Lestrade groan with the effort of not crying out.  
  
 _No! Put it back, you bastard!_  
  
"Awww - so there's a poor old Mrs Lestrade sitting at home wondering whose bed you slept in last night, eh? What's the little woman's name?"  
  
 _Not a woman, you tosser... Not little either..._ Lestrade smiled at that thought and was almost knocked from his seat by a hard slap across his head.  
  
Davie wrapped his arm around Lestrade's neck in a choke-hold. "Don't you fucking smirk at me! What's her name?"  
  
" _Piss off_."  
  
The knife cut a clean, sharp line down across his left breast. Lestrade hissed in a breath through his teeth. He had the immediate sensation of a warm, damp patch spreading across his shirt before it was obliterated by the stinging pain of the cut.  
  
"Not laughing now, are you? Anyway, I don't care what your fat, ugly wife's called. I want to know how you knew we were here," Davie hissed in his ear.  
  
"I'm psychic," Lestrade growled through gritted teeth. What the hell - it was a good an answer as the truth and probably slightly more believable.  
  
"Yeah?" Another line of fire suddenly slashed across his right side, from his stomach out to his ribs. Lestrade grunted and tried to lean over but Davie still held him firmly. "Didn't see _that_ coming, did you?"  
  
"Davie! What did I say about the knife?" Old Man yelled across the warehouse.  
  
"Shit. Sorry, yeah, forgot." Davie moved away and came back. "Boss says if I'm cutting you it has to be with glass - knife edge'll look too clean. So I'll have to do those two again - what a shame." He grabbed Lestrade round the neck again, holding Lestrade's head firmly back against his chest. A much blunter point dragged it's way along the first cut, tearing at the open flesh. Lestrade swore repeatedly under his breath and banged his heel against the ground, determined not to give Davie the satisfaction of making him scream.  
  
"Ooh - nasty," Davie said appreciatively.  
  
The warm wet feeling across Lestrade's chest was already turning cold and sticky. The point moved away to the other cut across his side. He braced himself, breathing quickly and heavily through his nose and gritting his teeth.  
  
Davie held it there for what felt like an age, chuckling with anticipation, then started to draw the glass along the second cut with excruciating slowness.  
  
Lestrade could feel it catching on his skin, turning the clean edges of the knife's incision into a ragged, bloody mess. He half expected to feel his guts come spilling out into his lap. It was too much. He yelled with pain and writhed in Davie's inescapable grip.  
  
Davie sounded delighted. " _Yeahhhh..._ " He licked up the side of Lestrade's face and laughed...


	10. Capital of Thailand?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to discover where Lestrade is being held.

  
John poured two coffees and came back over to the desk.  
  
Sherlock had opened up Donovan's email and zoomed in on the right hand side of the picture. It showed the edge of a white plastic bag with red writing on it.  
  
John tilted his head and peered at the grainy image. _B... A... is that an N... might be an M..._  
  
Sherlock opened up Yellow Pages in a new window and started typing. "Last thing I said to Lestrade was to look for an industrial location near a railway line with a bookmakers, dry cleaners and Thai restaurant nearby. Capital of Thailand?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"Bangkok," John replied, nodding.  
  
" _Bangkok._ " Sherlock scrolled through a list of results. It wasn't a very long list.  
  
John sipped his coffee and listened to Sherlock muttering to himself as he mentally pictured the location of each restaurant. "No, not on his way home, no, no, maybe..." Sherlock pulled up another window and called up a list of bookmakers. "No, nothing nearby."  
  
Something was tickling at the back of John's mind. "Bamboo..." he said.  
  
"What?"  
  
" _Bamboo_ , not Bangkok." John dashed over to his notes. "Bamboo Garden - it's on the High Street in Acton. It was next on my list to check."  
  
Sherlock turned back to the list of bookmakers and narrowed the search. "That's on Lestrade's route home, certainly... Ah! There's a William Hill on Acton High Street."  
  
John watched over his shoulder as Sherlock typed in "Dry-cleaners, Acton".  
  
The page loaded.  
  
They were dressed and out of the door in under five minutes, leaving their coffee mugs growing cold, side by side on the desk.  
  
For once luck was not on their side. They had to walk down to Marylebone Road before they spotted a cab. Sherlock flagged it down and they piled in.  
  
"Acton High Street - quick as you can."  
  
"How long to get there?" John asked.  
  
"This time of day... Should be a straight shot along the Westway and down - twenty minutes," Sherlock replied. "You better call Donovan."  
  
John took his phone out and redialled the last number. "Hello, Sergeant Donovan. Yes - we've... What? Where?" He turned to Sherlock. "They've found Lestrade's car - in Vauxhall."  
  
"Probably dumped there as a decoy," Sherlock answered without turning away from the window.  
  
"Sherlock thinks it's a decoy... Yes, we think we've found the location based on the picture and... Acton High Street. We're on our way there now... OK. Bye."  
  
John put his phone away again. "She's going to check out the car then come over."  
  
Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Useless! She won't be able to tell anything from the car."  
  
"It'll make her feel better to be doing something. Besides you know Lestrade has some bizarre attachment to that death trap he drives. He'll be glad to get it back."  
  
John had been glancing out the window at the passing buildings as he spoke but he realised Sherlock had turned and directed his attention to him. "What?"  
  
"The chances are extremely high that Lestrade is already dead, John," Sherlock said quietly.  
  
"Extremely high is not the same as one hundred percent, Sherlock. As far as I'm concerned, Lestrade is alive until I see otherwise. I don't just give up on people like that."  
  
Sherlock suddenly flashed him one of his rare smiles but said nothing else before he turned back to watching the traffic...


	11. Ten minutes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock finally make it to Acton while Lestrade gets his first - and possibly last - look at his tormentor, but time is running out...

The cab dropped them directly outside the Bamboo Garden restaurant eighteen minutes later.  
  
Sherlock glanced along the row of shops. "Yes. It has to be here. Probably that warehouse over there."  
  
John pointed to a gap in the fencing along the street. "Well - let's check it out, shall we?"  
  
It was eerily quiet as they approached. The day was overcast and the heavy grey sky matched the sombre mood created by the vista of cracked concrete and dereliction.  
  
"This place looks like it's been deserted for years," John commented.  
  
Sherlock peered curiously at the mess of twisted metal on the side of the building nearest them. "Maybe - but this damage is recent - only a day or two old, if that." Sherlock mimed grabbing for something with his left hand, then leaned backwards. "He was standing there... The railing snapped... He must have... Ah." Sherlock suddenly swooped down on something.  
  
"What is it?" John leaned over to see what had caught Sherlock's attention.  
  
Sherlock held up a few short hairs matted together with dried blood, clasped between his fingers. "Hit his head when the fire escape collapsed."  
  
"Who? Lestrade?"  
  
"Hair colour matches and this must have been last night. Yesterday's rain would have washed it away." Sherlock closely inspected another piece of rusted metal. "The fibres caught here on the railing are the same colour as the jacket he was wearing yesterday."  
  
A faint cry rang out from within the building, making both their heads snap round towards its source.  
  
John exchanged a grim look with Sherlock, took his gun out from the small of his back and checked the clip...

 

* * *

  
Davie clamped his hand across Lestrade's mouth and held Lestrade's head firmly back against his chest as he made more quick, short cuts across  Lestrade's body.  
  
Lestrade squirmed and yelled into Davie's palm at each new line of bright, hot pain. Davie had completely given up any pretence of questioning him. This was just about hurting him - pure and simple.  
  
Davie suddenly stopped and stood up, leaving Lestrade trembling and breathing heavily. Lestrade wondered _Why?_ and _What now?_ until he heard footsteps approaching.  
  
"Jesus, Davie... You're a sick fuck - you know that?" Mike said. The disgust was clear in his voice.  
  
"Did he say anything about how he found us?" Old Man asked.  
  
"Not yet - but I'm only just getting warmed up," Davie answered.  
  
"Doesn't matter. We're good to go. Stick him by the wall next to the fire escape. We'll be long gone by the time they dig him out from there - and don't forget to take off the blindfold and the tape from his arms."  
  
"What if he tries to do a runner?"  
  
"What? No - you kill him first, you moron. Whack him round the head with that."  
  
 _Say something, you idiot!_ "You don't have to kill me - I haven't seen your faces," Lestrade blurted out.  
  
Davie grabbed his hair and Lestrade groaned in pain. "Heard our names though, haven't you? Thanks to certain big-mouthed northern twats," Davie spat.  
  
"That's enough." Old Man said firmly. "We've got all the stuff loaded in the van. We'll wait out front for you. Make it quick."  
  
"But you said--"  
  
"You want to still be hanging around when his friends show up? He'll have been missed by now. Take him over there, kill him and get your arse out front. The building's coming down in ten minutes and we're going with or without you."  
  
A set of heavy footsteps pounded away into the distance.  
  
"Boss - wait a minute!"  
  
Lestrade heard Davie running off in the same direction leaving him alone with the Geordie. _Last chance..._ "Mike--"  
  
"I'm sorry, mate - you seem a decent enough bloke for a copper, but there's no way I'm crossing those two."  
  
Lestrade considered for a minute whether to tell Mike that Davie had taken his ring. He knew the old man would make Davie return it but on the other hand it would be one more clue for them to hopefully track the bastard down. "...Never mind then."  
  
There was an awkward pause. "Have you got family? Any kids?"  
  
 _Yes, hundreds, make something up, make him sorry!_ Lestrade sighed. "...No. No kids." _Just a consulting detective with the behavioural control of a three year old._..  
  
"Well that's something, eh?" Mike patted him on the shoulder and then his footsteps too moved away.  
  
 _Oh yeah, I'm going to take real comfort from knowing the only person who'll miss me is that old lady two doors down whose rubbish I take down to the bins..._  
  
Lestrade shivered. He was starting to feel light-headed.  
  
 _Oh shut up, you self-pitying arse... Donovan'll miss you the first time she has to deal with Sherlock on her own... Ah - here's lover boy back again..._  
  
Footsteps slowly approached and then the blindfold was violently ripped from his head, along with a good few hairs. Lestrade felt a slow trickle of blood start down his scalp. The cut on his head must have re-opened. He kept his head down and his eyes shut tight.  
  
Davie slapped Lestrade's face. "Open your eyes!"  
  
Lestrade blinked hard and forced his eyes open. They were met with the sight of his own chest and stomach, covered in the tattered remains of his shirt and soaked in blood. _Shit..._ No wonder he was feeling faint.  
  
"Up." Davie grabbed Lestrade's hair again and pulled him to his feet. The world tilted and span alarmingly. Lestrade stumbled and fell over heavily, leaving more of his hair in Davie's fist.  
  
"Get up!" Davie yelled. "I'll fucking drag you over there if I have to."  
  
Lestrade rolled onto his side and Davie grabbed him under his arm and hauled him upright again.  
  
"Move."  
  
Lestrade's legs felt like they belonged to someone else. He glanced around as they staggered over towards the wall. There was no sign of the printing press or the lamps. The warehouse was once more a huge, gloomy, empty space. The only light came from an open door at the far end and the occasional shaft of weak sunlight through a gap in the paint over the upper windows.  
  
 _What a bloody miserable place to die..._  
  
Lestrade looked up as they reached the wall. At one time there must have been a walkway on the first level but now the fire door he'd stood on the other side of opened into thin air. Even if it had been open when he'd tried it last night, he'd have had nowhere to go.  
  
Davie dumped Lestrade on his knees a few feet away from the wall. He was indeed the young lad who'd picked up the carry-out. He had a piece of timber in his hand, about two feet long. He turned to face Lestrade and smirked as he tossed the piece of wood back and forth between his hands.  
  
 _Cocky little git..._ "Your club hasn't got a nail in it. Don't they teach you anything at thug school these days?" Lestrade said mockingly.  
  
"Fucking coppers! You're all such smug bastards. Let's see how smug you are with your brains all over the wall."  
  
"You have a real anti-authority problem, don't you, son?" Lestrade studied him carefully before suddenly realising the answer. "I bet your dad was a copper, wasn't he?"  
  
"Shut up!" Davie screamed. He pointed the timber at Lestrade's face. "I'm going to beat you to a pulp, you _filth_."  
  
 _God, I'm tired of this..._ Lestrade glared up at him and snarled defiantly, "Come on then, you dickless wonder. Give it your best shot!"  
  
Davie sneered and swung the length of timber back over his shoulder, like a baseball bat...


	12. And the Walls Came Tumbling Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John show up in the nick of time - but Davie still has one last trick up his sleeve.

Lestrade tensed...  
  
There was a loud crack and the length of two by four about to turn his head into pulp disintegrated in a shower of splinters.  
  
Davie looked dumbly at the pieces still in his hand then up over Lestrade's head. His face went white.  
  
Lestrade turned his head as much as he could to look behind him.  
  
"Don't move." John Watson was slowly advancing with the gun-that-he-categorically-did- _not_ -have held unwavering in front of him, pointed at Davie.  
  
Lestrade had never seen such a grim look on the Doctor's face. He was very glad it _and_ the gun weren't directed at him.  
  
A distant squeal of tires sounded from outside. The others must have heard the shot and decided to get out of there. Lestrade looked sharply at Davie but he didn't seem at all worried. Whatever mechanism they'd set up to collapse the building couldn't have been triggered and it appeared Davie didn't expect it to be.  
  
Davie tossed the remnants of the piece of wood aside and looked at John, wide-eyed. "Who the fuck are you?"  
  
"He's ex-military and a damn good shot so I wouldn't piss him off if I were you," Lestrade growled.  
  
"Good morning, Lestrade." Sherlock ran up and dropped to a crouch behind him. Lestrade heard the snick of Sherlock's pocket knife. He winced as Sherlock grabbed his arm to start cutting his hands free. "Hmm. Your arm's broken."  
  
Lestrade gave a tired laugh. "Thank you. I had noticed."  
  
"I was informing John."  
  
John drew level with where Lestrade was kneeling and looked down in concern. Davie shifted as if he was about to make a break for it and John's attention was right back on him. " _Don't_. Hands against the wall."  
  
Davie turned and put his palms flat against the wall, still scowling.  
  
Lestrade cleared his throat. "John, please don't let me see you with something I _know_ you don't have."  
  
John smiled his tight, thin-lipped smile at Davie. "I can hit you square in the back of the head before you're even half-way to the door - but you're welcome to try." He clicked on the safety and tucked the gun back in his trousers.  
  
Davie looked from John to the door. His shoulders slumped as he clearly decided against chancing it.  
  
Sherlock finished cutting the tape round Lestrade's wrists and stood up.  
  
"Let me take a look at your head, Lestrade." John got down on one knee next to him and started gently probing Lestrade's scalp. "Hmm, not too bad. Good job your head's as thick as Sherlock says."  
  
"Har de har," Lestrade replied sarcastically.  
  
"Sherlock - text Donovan for an ambulance, please," John said.  
  
"I don't need an ambulance," Lestrade protested.  
  
"Shut up. Of course you do."  
  
Sherlock took his phone out and sent the requested text - without looking at it. Davie shifted uncomfortably under Sherlock's penetrating and unflinching stare.  
  
John helped Lestrade slowly move his arms round in front of his body. Lestrade gritted his teeth as his arm muscles burned at being moved from their long-held position.  
  
"Can I have your scarf please, Sherlock?" John asked.  
  
Sherlock hesitated a moment then lifted it off and handed it down to John without taking his eyes from Davie.  
  
John folded the scarf and arranged it over Lestrade's shoulder to support his arm. "I'm going to use this for a sling," he explained. "Just hold your arm there for now."   
  
Lestrade waited patiently until John had finished. "Happy?" he asked. "Right, first things first. Help me up please, would you, John?"  
  
John frowned at him but put an arm under his shoulder as Lestrade got shakily to his feet. "I need to check those cuts, Lestrade."  
  
"In a minute." Lestrade held his hand out to Sherlock. "Gimme."  
  
Sherlock looked blankly at him and Lestrade sighed.  
  
"You can pinch it back later but I need to have it for this. Hand it over."  
  
Sherlock reluctantly drew Lestrade's warrant card from his pocket and gave it to him.  
  
"Thank you." Lestrade turned back to Davie. "Turn around, son. What's your surname?"  
  
"Fuck off."  
  
" _Your name_."  
  
"Evans," Davie spat.  
  
Lestrade opened his warrant card - somewhat awkwardly with only his right hand - and held it up. "David Evans, I am Detective Inspector Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police Service and I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of..."  
  
Lestrade blinked. _Damn - what was the bloke's name?_  
  
"Roger Prescott," Sherlock prompted.  
  
"Roger Prescott. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."  
  
Davie looked at him sullenly but jammed his hands in his pockets and kept his mouth shut.  
  
Lestrade closed his warrant card and held it back out to Sherlock who just looked at it. "Not any fun if you don't have to get it yourself? Fine." Lestrade tucked it back in his trouser pocket and held out his hand again, this time to Davie.  
  
Davie hesitated, then drew his fist out of his left trouser pocket. He reached out to drop its contents onto Lestrade's upturned palm.

* * *

Sherlock knew what Lestrade was silently demanding. He'd already spotted the missing wedding ring when he'd cut the tape around Lestrade's wrists. Chances were high the young man also had Lestrade's mobile phone but that would hold far less sentimental value.  
  
Evans opened his fist but it turned out to be empty. Instead, he suddenly seized Lestrade's wrist and pulled him forward, punching into Lestrade's stomach with his right hand. Lestrade doubled over with a grunt and dropped to the ground as John leaped forward to catch him.  
  
Sherlock made a grab for Evans but he ducked, spun away and bolted for the door.  
  
Sherlock raced after him. He heard John calling his name but ignored it. He'd be blocking John's shot but despite his earlier statement Sherlock knew John would hesitate before shooting an unarmed man in the act of running away - and Lestrade would far prefer Evans to not be seriously injured now he was under arrest.  
  
Evans ducked through the door and sprinted across the derelict car park but he stopped when he was only about thirty feet from the building. He picked up a length of rope and held it up with a triumphant gleam in his eye as Sherlock approached. "Wanna see a magic trick? I'm gonna make a whole building disappear."  
  
Sherlock stopped and his eyes followed the rope to where it was tied round a supporting beam of the building. _There's no internal supporting structure - knock one bit of the wall out, the whole building will collapse._  
  
Evans braced his foot against a kerb and pulled the rope.  
  
The beam must have been at least partially sawn through already. It snapped outwards and with a huge groan the whole wall started to buckle.  
  
"See ya!" Evans shouted. He raced off across the waste ground towards the gap in the fence.  
  
 _John!_  
  
Sherlock started back towards the building but the wall above the door suddenly burst out in shower of splinters and glass. Sherlock turned and threw himself to the ground, flinging his arms up to protect his head. Behind him there was a moments stillness then the whole building slowly collapsed in on itself with a roar.  
  
Sherlock kept his head down as bits of debris bounced around him. A larger piece of timber landed across his back but with only enough force to bruise, not break any bones. When he judged the worst of the danger was over, he lifted his head. A huge cloud of dust billowed out towards him from the rubble. He quickly ducked his head back inside his coat collar as he felt it sweep over him then looked up again.  
  
The building was completely flattened - and buried somewhere under it were both the men he'd ever had any reason to call 'friend'...


	13. Back Door Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's more than one way out of a collapsing building - if you're quick... and not injured.

Evans reached out to drop whatever was in his fist onto Lestrade's upturned palm.  
  
John still had half an eye on Lestrade's wounds and was a fraction too slow to react as Evans seized Lestrade's wrist and punched into his stomach.  
  
The D.I. doubled over and fell to the ground. John managed to catch him enough to break his fall.   
  
Evans sprinted away with Sherlock chasing after him.  
  
John quickly evaluated his options: draw his gun  - no, Sherlock was in the way; chase after them - Sherlock was the faster runner anyway; check his patient - John turned his attention back to Lestrade.  
  
The older man had curled up into a ball, clutching his stomach.  
  
"Lestrade - are you alright? Let me see." John put his hand on Lestrade's side. It came away wet with blood. John suddenly realised Davie hadn't just _punched_ Lestrade; he must have had a knife and he'd _stabbed_ him.  
  
"Sherlock!" John shouted urgently after him but Sherlock had left the building. "Damn." John rolled Lestrade to the side and ripped his shirt open. " _Sherlock_!"  
  
"John..." Lestrade's brown eyes were wide and dark with pain. The blood that trickled from the corner of his mouth was alarmingly bright against the grey pallor of his face.  
  
"It's alright, Lestrade. Don't try to talk," John ordered.  
  
"Building's... rigged," Lestrade choked. "Y'need to get out..."  
  
"What?"  
  
There was a groan of timbers and masonry from the front of the building. Lestrade tried to push him away. "Get out!"  
  
"Like hell! Get up, come on - we'll both go out the back." John dragged Lestrade to his feet and got his arm round him.  They staggered towards the back door Sherlock had unlocked only minutes earlier.  
  
They had just reached the door when the front wall suddenly exploded outwards. John hauled Lestrade through the door as the building reverberated with the shock. He grabbed Lestrade's right arm, ducked in front of him and let Lestrade's weight fall across his shoulders as he slipped his arm between Lestrade's legs.  
  
 _This is going to hurt me about as much as it'll hurt you..._  
  
John's psychosomatic limp may have gone but his leg muscles had been atrophied by it and were still regaining strength. He felt the deep burn in his thighs as he pushed up and the damaged nerves in his shoulder screamed in protest as he took Lestrade's weight across his back. He groaned more than Lestrade did - not a good sign, it meant the D.I. was losing consciousness.  
  
John started running in a direct line away from the building.  
  
The roar started behind them. John glanced back to see the wall cave in away from them then the whole world was falling about their ears. John threw caution to the wind, ignored the screaming pain in his legs and shoulder and ran, low and fast, across the open ground. Bits of timber and rubble bounced past them. He made it to what he hoped was a safe distance then set Lestrade down and crouched protectively over him as a cloud of dust billowed around them.  
  
 _I hope Sherlock wasn't in there!_  
  
As the dust settled John turned back to Lestrade. He spoke to him in between calling for help. "SHERLOCK! Hang in there, Lestrade. An ambulance'll be here any minute... Try and stay awake... _SHERLOCK!!_ "  
  


* * *

  
Sherlock leapt to his feet. A light breeze blew swirls of dust towards him and he coughed as he tried to peer through it.  
  
A police car skidded through the gates and slid to a halt behind him. Donovan leapt out of it. An ambulance drew up right behind her. "Where's the boss?" she demanded.  
  
Sherlock gestured to the rubble, still coughing.  
  
"Oh my God... And John?"  
  
Sherlock nodded. He shoved at one of the ambulance crew who was trying to pull him away... and then he heard it.  
  
"Sherlock!"  
  
"Quiet! Everybody shut up!" Sherlock snarled.  
  
"Sherlock!"  
  
"It's John! Round the back! Drive round!" Sherlock made a sweeping gesture with his arm then headed off straight through the middle of the building's remains.  
  
"You heard him!" Donovan yelled. She and the ambulance crew dashed back to their vehicles and set off in a wide semi-circle around the tarmac.  
  


* * *

  
John pressed against Lestrade's side. The policeman had already lost a lot of blood from the vicious cuts across his chest and stomach and now he was bleeding freely from the small hole under his ribs. John prayed the knife had missed his vital organs but, even if it had, Lestrade was fast running out of time. John silently resolved to keep more medical supplies in his jacket from now on.  
  
"John!" Sherlock suddenly appeared dancing across the piles of wood, glass and brick towards them. "I'm here, John!" He knelt down facing John on Lestrade's other side. "Thank God you're alright! How's Lestrade?"  
  
Lestrade's breath was coming in rapid gasps and his skin was grey, cold and clammy.  
  
"Not good. He's been stabbed," John explained. "We need to get him out of here. He's going into shock."  
  
Sherlock slid one hand under Lestrade's head and held it up off the ground.  
  
Lestrade's eyes fluttered open and fixed on Sherlock's. "Sh'rl'ck..."  
  
"Hello, Lestrade."  
  
"Sh'r'ck... I... I lo..." Lestrade coughed as he tried to speak.  
  
"It's alright, Lestrade. I know," Sherlock said softly. He took Lestrade's hand and squeezed it tightly.  
  
John looked at the way Lestrade was looking at Sherlock and suddenly he knew too. You didn't need to be a consulting detective to figure out what Lestrade hadn't said.  
  
"Course you do." Lestrade smiled as he closed his eyes again.  
  
"No, no, no... Come on, Lestrade. Don't do this. Stay with us." John felt for his pulse then pressed harder against the wound.  
  
The paramedics came running over with Donovan. Her face went white when she saw Lestrade. "Is he...?"  
  
"No," John said. "And he's not going to be either - not if I can help it." He explained what had happened to the paramedics as they got Lestrade onto the stretcher then went with them as they loaded him into the ambulance.  
  
"Was there anyone else in there?" Donovan asked.  
  
"No." Sherlock shook his head. "They got away."  
  
"Clark - keep everyone out of there," Donovan shouted at a fellow officer as another car pulled up. She nodded at Sherlock, "Get in," and got back in the car. Sherlock barely hesitated before running round the other side.  
  
"Central Middlesex A&E is two miles away. We'll be there in five minutes," she said as he closed the passenger side door. The car flew off after the ambulance in a spray of gravel and a blur of flashing lights.


	14. ICE - In Case of Emergencies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Donovan reach the hospital and get the prognosis from John

John stepped back as the large double doors swung shut behind the mad scramble of the trauma team. This was as far as he could go; it was up to others now.  
  
"Are you sure you don't need looked at yourself?" a nurse asked him.  
  
"No, I'm fine - honestly. Thank you. Just need to sit down." Now the adrenaline was wearing off John realised his leg and his shoulder were both throbbing. He collapsed gratefully into a chair in the waiting area.  
  
He was covered top-to-toe in fine white dust. His hands were streaked with blood and he could feel a large damp patch of it seeping through the shoulder of his jacket where he'd carried Lestrade. There had been several moments in the ambulance he could have sworn he was back in Afghanistan, Lestrade's shirt and suit shifting to desert DPM combat dress before his eyes. He was surprised he couldn't hear gunfire.  
  
"John!"  
  
John looked up as Sherlock and Donovan strode towards him. He immediately answered the question their faces were asking. "They've taken him straight into surgery. He's lost a lot of blood."  
  
"What happened? Did he not get out in time?" Donovan asked.  
  
"No, it wasn't the building collapse. He was injured before that," John answered.  
  
'Injured how?"  
  
"Stab wound to the lower left side," Sherlock rattled off. "Too low to catch his spleen, may have damaged his intestines. Three long but not too deep incisions made with a knife or piece of glass, across here, here... and here." Sherlock motioned across his own shoulder, chest and stomach. "Several other smaller ones, all to the torso. He also has a laceration to the back of the head caused by a fall from about fifteen feet, various other lacerations and abrasions, bruising to the face and body from punches and kicks of varying intensity and a fractured left ulna, possibly also the radius. He may have done that in the fall or his captors may have done it later. Can't say for certain."  
  
"You're talking about him like he's just another victim!" Donovan exploded. "How can you be so bloody calm about it? You... He..." She clenched her fists. "I'm going to go get him properly checked in. You don't need to hang about any more, do you, Freak? It's not as if you _care_ ," she spat at Sherlock as she turned and headed for the reception desk.  
  
Sherlock was quiet for a moment then he looked down at John. "Are you alright?"  
  
John nodded. "Leg hurts. Shoulder's killing me. Soon as Lestrade wakes up I'm going to tell him he needs to lose at least half a stone if he wants me to carry him anywhere else."  
  
"So he _is_ going to wake up?" Sherlock pounced on John's words a little too quickly and John could see him hastily putting his mask of indifference back on.  
  
"We don't know yet. It might be a while before we do..." John watched as Sherlock shot glances towards the doors leading outside. "You want to get after them, don't you?"  
  
Sherlock nodded. "I can't _do_ anything here. Sitting here being concerned for Lestrade will not help him. Catching the men who did this to him, will."  
  
"How will you find them again?"  
  
"Please, John - I had more than enough time to study both Evans and the warehouse." Sherlock flipped open his phone and his thumbs started dancing over the keypad.  
  
"You can't use your phone in here, Sherlock. Take it outside. I'll go tell Donovan we're leaving and join you in a minute."  
  
Sherlock looked as if he were about to argue but John gave him his best _I mean it_ face and he relented. " _Fine_." He thrust his phone back into his pocket and marched outside.  
  
John grinned as he watched him go. From the front Sherlock was only slightly dusty but his back was almost completely white - good excuse to pat him down later. John gathered his thoughts for a moment then stood up with much groaning and dragged himself over towards Reception.  
  
Donovan was leaning over the desk using the phone. "Are you sure? ...Alright, I'll tell him... Thanks." She handed the headset back to the woman behind the desk and turned to John. "I was just checking with the office for the boss's next of kin."  
  
"Oh, yes?" John was curious. There had been no family photos at Lestrade's flat but he must have come from _somewhere_.  
  
"In case of death or emergency medical decisions he asked that we contact Doctor John H. Watson."  
  
"Me?"  
  
"Yep. Changed it two months ago. I suppose it makes sense - having a doctor be the one that gets asked about things like switching off life support - since he's got no family."  
  
"And it means Sherlock would find out as well," John said thoughtfully.  
  
"Where is the Freak? Left already?"  
  
" _Sherlock_ is outside. He wanted to use his phone to help work out where the bastards that did this to Lestrade have gone; the same bastards who would have already buried Lestrade under that building if _he_ hadn't found them. Sherlock's not going to sit and wring his hands waiting for news - that's not him - but don't think he doesn't care, Sally. You didn't see him when we found Lestrade."  
  
Donovan looked a little taken aback by John's outburst. "Sorry... it's just... He's so..."  
  
"I know - but that's just how he is."  
  
Donovan dug into her coat pocket and pulled out a notebook. She scribbled something down, tore the sheet off and handed it to John. "Here. We were able to trace that mobile phone photo back to a phone in this name. It might be useful."  
  
John looked at it then took it and smiled at her. "Thank you. You'll let me know the second you hear anything?"  
  
She nodded. "Or if we need to... ask you anything."  
  
"I'm sure it won't come to that. You know your boss - he's far too stubborn and he hates bother."  
  
Donovan smiled at that. "Yeah. He'll probably moan about me tying up valuable resources looking for him."  
  
John laughed and held up the piece of paper. "I better give this to Sherlock. I'll let you know what we find." He turned to leave and almost knocked over a young man in a doctor's coat who had come up behind him.  
  
"Doctor Watson?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I'm Doctor Seaford. I just heard from the OR - your friend will be fine. He'll need a lot of stitches and he'll have to stay in for a few days but he should make a full recovery. The knife missed everything vital."  
  
"Oh, thank God," Sally breathed.  
  
"That's great news. Thank you. What about his arm?"  
  
The doctor checked his notes. "His arm? Oh, yes... It's a clean break so he'll have a cast on for about six weeks. Some physiotherapy once that comes off and he'll be right as rain."  
  
"Brilliant." John grinned at Donovan then hurried outside.  
  
Sherlock was standing about twenty feet from the door. He looked up at John and his face broke into smile. "He's going to be alright."  
  
"Yes - and Donovan gave me this for you. It's the name the phone that took the photo is registered to."  
  
Sherlock glanced at it then stuffed it into his coat pocket. "I suppose we'll have to inform Donovan when we find them now."  
  
"You weren't going to?"  
  
"Not if Lestrade died, no," Sherlock said calmly. He studied John's face for a few seconds. "That surprises you."  
  
John thought for a moment. "No, on second thoughts, it doesn't. We'll bring them in because that's what Lestrade would want but you're right - if he'd died, I wouldn't be too upset if we ended up killing that little shit or his friends. Lestrade's a good bloke. I'd feel I owed him that."  
  
They'd been walking as they talked and were now out on the main road again. Sherlock held up his hand as a cab with its light on approached.  
  
"Then again," John added with a smirk, "Once we hand them over to Donovan's tender mercies, I'm not certain they might not prefer me to have shot them."  
  
Sherlock laughed. "Indeed." He opened the cab door and gestured to John. "Shall we?"


	15. Under Medical Supervision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade is discharged from the hospital - but where to?

Lestrade slipped his feet into his running shoes, leaving the laces loose, then sat back down on the bed and let out a long breath. He was wearing his baggy exercise clothes but even though they didn't have any buttons or zips it had still taken him a long time to get dressed. He was frustrated by how exhausted he was by such simple actions.  
  
He reached for his jacket and winced, feeling stitches pull taut across his chest.  
  
"Let me help you on with that, Mr. Lestrade." One of the nurses appeared by his bed.  
  
"It's fine... really - thank you."  
  
"Nonsense. It's no trouble at all." The nurse beamed at him as she lifted his coat around his left shoulder and draped it over his sling.  
  
"Thank you. You've all been very kind." Lestrade gave her a tired smile.  
  
Word had got out that the _handsome_ and _heroic_ Mr. Lestrade was also _single_. He guessed they'd spotted the missing wedding ring before he even woke up from his surgery __and once t__ heir suspicion was confirmed by his lack of visitors, he'd had suspiciously close attention from several of the nurses.  
  
Donovan had been his only visitor; she'd popped in the day after he woke up to take his statement and again yesterday to drop off some clothes. He'd told her everything he could remember, up to being ignominiously slung over John Watson's back like a sack of potatoes. He had some other, much hazier, memories after that point but they certainly weren't ones he wanted recorded anywhere.  
  
Sherlock and John had been conspicuous by their absence. Donovan said they were trying to pick up the counterfeiting gang's trail but Lestrade wasn't surprised he hadn't heard anything since then. All he'd really been able to add about the two other men was that one of them _sounded_ older and the other had a Geordie accent and was called Mike - not spectacularly useful information on the whole. Evans was still their best lead but Lestrade would bet he'd gone to ground and wouldn't be popping up any time soon.  
  
"Got your tablets?" the nurse asked as she walked with him towards the lifts.  
  
Lestrade patted his jacket pocket. "Yep."  
  
"Somebody picking you up?"  
  
"Umm, no. My sergeant was going to give me a lift but she got called away to something. I've arranged for a cab. Thanks."   
  
As soon as he stepped outside Lestrade was on the phone to his Sergeant. "Donovan."  
  
"Hello, sir. Out of the hospital then?"  
  
Lestrade opened the back door of the black cab and hauled himself in. "Yeah, I'm just leaving now. Listen - did you get anything from... What the--?" Lestrade suddenly realised someone had climbed into the cab behind him. He turned to see Sherlock settling himself in, furiously tapping away at his mobile.  
  
John Watson opened the door on the other side. He stepped in and sat down in the other corner of the back seat.  
  
John leaned over and lifted the phone away from Lestrade's ear as he gently pushed Lestrade to sit down between him and Sherlock. "Hello - Sergeant Donovan? Yes, it's John Watson. We're kidnapping D.I. Lestrade..." John tapped the glass to get the cabbie's attention and said, "221B Baker Street, please." He sat back as the cab pulled away and listened to the phone for a minute before chuckling. "Our demands?" John grinned and looked across at Lestrade. "We demand you deliver a large selection of Indian takeaway to our flat at or around 7pm this evening."  
  
"And the ballistics report for the Barber case," Sherlock added, without looking up.  
  
John ignored him. "We also demand that, no matter how much he pesters you, you don't bother D.I. Lestrade with anything work related for at least the next 48 hours."  
  
"Unless it's the ballistics report for the Barber case," Sherlock repeated.  
  
"What?" John laughed and covered the phone with his hand. "She wants to know how much we'll accept to keep you indefinitely."  
  
"Give me that," Lestrade growled.  
  
John easily ducked the half-hearted swipe Lestrade made for the phone. "There isn't enough money in the world, Sally. OK... bye."  
  
"We're going to your place," Lestrade observed.  
  
"Nice to see that head injury had no effect, Lestrade," Sherlock said scathingly.  
  
" _Why_ are we going to your place?"  
  
"Because you need looking after and it's easier for us to do that at our place than at yours," John answered.  
  
"Us?" Lestrade looked at him in alarm.  
  
"Yes, alright, _me_ ," John reassured him. "Don't worry - I wouldn't dream of letting Sherlock even attempt to look after you."  
  
"I don't need _looking after_. I'm not _four_."  
  
"No, you're forty-four, you're recovering from surgery and you've got a broken arm."  
  
"He's forty-six," Sherlock corrected.  
  
"Yes, thank you." Lestrade scowled at him. "So what is this? Help the Aged week?"  
  
"Look, Lestrade," John said. "You should really have been kept in for a few more days but I persuaded them to release you early on the strict understanding you'd be closely monitored. If you like we can turn round and you can go back to that ward bed. I'm sure the nurses will be more than happy to have you in their clutches again. Either way, you're not returning to your flat on your own."  
  
Lestrade slouched back in the seat between them. He would have dearly liked to have been able to cross his arms so he could sulk properly but the sling made that impossible. "Just a few days, right?"  
  
"Right."  
  
They sat in silence for a few minutes before Lestrade cracked. "So are you going to tell me how you're getting on finding that mob?"  
  
"Sherlock?" John leaned forward and reached across Lestrade to tap Sherlock's knee.  
  
"What? Oh... yes. Donovan is actually on her way to take them into custody now." Sherlock gave him a very self-satisfied smile.  
  
"What?"  
  
"We found them last night," John explained. "Well, we found Evans and then we... persuaded him to tell us where the others were."  
  
" _Persuaded_?" Lestrade said sceptically. "Actually, you know what? I don't want to know."  
  
"He's not even missing so much as a fingernail," Sherlock said. He sounded heartily disappointed that this was the case. "Although do remind me to get John to show you his William Tell impersonation some day."  
  
"Oh God..." Lestrade covered his eyes with his free hand.  
  
"And Sherlock has something for you," John prompted.  
  
Lestrade felt Sherlock's long fingers prise his hand away from his face and hold it palm upwards.  
  
Sherlock stretched out his other hand, palm down, fingers splayed wide. He twisted his wrist, showing Lestrade his hand was empty then his fingers made a snapping motion and there was a glint of gold between his thumb and middle finger. He dropped the ring onto Lestrade's palm with a flourish worthy of a practiced street magician. "I believe this is yours."  
  
Lestrade stared at it in surprise for a moment then held it up and looked for the curling letters of the inscription on the inner side of the ring - _G &P_. He slipped it back on to his left ring finger and was embarrassed to find his vision blurring slightly. "Thank you." He swallowed hard around the sudden lump in his throat.  
  
"Very fortunate timing all things considered," Sherlock said. "Probably best if Mrs Hudson doesn't think you're a threat to the happy home. Ah - here we are." Sherlock was already in motion as the cab pulled to halt outside the familiar black door.  
  
Lestrade wasn't sure what the hell that last comment was meant to imply. He sat dazed as John grabbed his bag and followed Sherlock... and then realised they'd both just landed him with paying the taxi fare.


	16. Ready for Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long day and Lestrade is getting sleepy...

The coffee table in 221B Baker Street was an explosion of the remnants of brightly coloured dishes in shiny metal trays. Lestrade, John and Sherlock sat on the sofa subconsciously stroking slightly distended stomachs, staring at the TV and trying to work out who on Earth could have told this woman she could sing.  
  
Lestrade had never seen one of Sherlock's post-case feeding frenzies before. If the young man ever lost his talent for deduction he had a glittering career ahead as a champion speed eater. Lestrade had soon realised why John had hastily dished out two platefuls for the pair of them before letting Sherlock loose on the rest.  
  
The phrases "Are you going to eat that?" and "Do you want the last...?" appeared to be completely missing from Sherlock's vocabulary. Lestrade had saved some Mushroom Pakora to 'fill up the corners' and had only just stopped Sherlock from swiping it straight off his plate.  
  
The pain medication, the comfy sofa, _The X Factor_ and most of all, the extremely rich Chicken Jalfrezi were proving to be a winning combination in terms of putting Lestrade to sleep. "I think... I think I need to go bed now," he yawned.  
  
John instantly jumped to his feet. "Of course you do. Sorry - should have thought." He extended his hand and helped pull Lestrade upright.  
  
Lestrade was suddenly reminded of just how strong John Watson was under that unassuming exterior. He blushed as he realised he was trying to picture what the doctor looked like under his jumper. Thankfully all their faces were still flushed from the spicy curry so John didn't notice - or gave no indication that he had.  
  
"You're in my room. It's handier for the bathroom," John said.  
  
"Thanks." Lestrade leaned over to pick up his bag, trying not to think about where that meant John was sleeping.  
  
"Let me get that." John plucked it from his grasp and headed towards the stairs. "Do you need a hand getting changed?"  
  
"No! No, that's... quite alright. I'll have to get used to doing it, won't I?"  
  
"Are you sure? It's no problem."  
  
"No - thank you, John."  
  
"OK." John bounded up the stairs. He had Lestrade's pyjamas and wash kit unpacked by the time Lestrade joined him, feeling more like eighty-six than forty-six. "If you need anything just yell - or text, that works too."  
  
"Right. Well... good night - and... thanks again, for letting me stay."  
  
"It's really no trouble at all, Lestrade. We're happy to help. Sleep well."  
  
John trotted off back down the stairs as Lestrade closed the door behind him. _Happy to help..._ Yep - that pretty much summed up John Watson.  
  
Lestrade kicked off his shoes and tugged down his running trousers before struggling into his pyjama bottoms. He unhooked his sling and carefully pulled off his t-shirt over his head. The sleeves on his pyjama top were loose enough to fit the cast through but the buttons on the front were small and fiddly and he couldn't get them done up properly. After a few frustrating minutes he gave up and left the top hanging open.  
  
He looked out his toothbrush and toothpaste and headed for the bathroom. It felt odd to be standing here in his pyjamas rather than his suit and not be rifling through the medicine cabinet. He opened it out of habit anyway. Nope - nothing remotely out of the ordinary. John must have had a quick tidy-up before he got here.  
  
He swung the cabinet door shut again. A grey-haired old man with a battered face and a body like Frankenstein's monster stared back at him from the mirrored surface.  
  
 _Only missing the bolts in my neck..._  
  
Lestrade sighed and turned the tap on. He waved his toothbrush under the running water and then groaned as he realised that putting the toothpaste on his toothbrush was going to be a little more tricky than usual. He eventually compromised by holding the toothbrush clamped between his teeth as he applied the paste, only dropping the lid for the paste into the sink twice. At least the rest was easy enough one-handed.  
  
"Everything OK?" John's voice drifted up the stairs.  
  
"Yeah, fine thanks."  
  
Lestrade rinsed his toothbrush and patted his mouth dry on the towel John had left him.  
  
 _'Fine'... Nearly fifty, beat to hell and relying on the pity of a sociopath and his gun-toting flatmate to help wipe the drool off my chin... Oh yeah - fucking_ excellent _..._

* * *

It was sometime in the wee hours of the morning when Lestrade's eyes snapped open and he found himself clutching at the covers around him, breathing hard and in a cold sweat. He'd been lying helpless in the darkness, unable to see, unable to move, knowing there was _something_ out there coming to hurt him that he couldn't escape from... And no-one was coming to help him. No one cared.  
  
He lay in the semi-light of John's room, catching his breath and listening to his heart pounding. _You're alright... you're alright... it's over... you're safe... They didn't get you..._  
  
There was a gentle tap at the door. "Lestrade? Everything OK?"  
  
"I'm... I'm fine, John. Sorry if I woke you up."  
  
"That's alright... I brought you a glass of water. Can I come in?"  
  
"Yeah. Let me get the light." Lestrade reached out for the switch on the small lamp on the bedside table as the door creaked open.  
  
John padded over and perched on the side of the bed. He put the glass down beside the lamp and looked at Lestrade in concern. "Sure you're OK? You look a bit flushed. Not getting a fever, are you?"  
  
"No, I..." Lestrade struggled for words, too embarrassed to admit the real cause of his agitation. _You what? Had a bad dream? Want your Mummy? Need a hug? Fuck's sake, Greg - grow a pair, eh?_  
  
John didn't say anything but instead looked down. Lestrade's pyjama top was wide open, showing off his bare chest and its recent battle scars in all their glory.  
  
Lestrade was surprised by the keen stare John was giving his torso until John asked, "Mind if I check your stitches?"  
  
 _Of course - purely professional interest, nothing more..._ "Be my guest." Lestrade flopped his head back down to the pillow and stared at the ceiling as he felt John's hands clinically probing at the tender pink skin around the stitches.  
  
"Hmmm. They're coming out day after tomorrow, yeah?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"All seems fine. No sign of any infection... You know, I broke a finger once having a nightmare. Thought I was back in Afghanistan, stuck in a burning vehicle. Smacked my hand off the bedside table trying to get out."  
  
Lestrade knew John was trying to be sympathetic but he couldn't help a sudden surge of bitterness. _Christ - even his bloody nightmares are better than mine..._ "Yeah, thanks, John. I'm fine - really."  
  
"Well, if you're sure." John stood up but turned back just as he reached the door. "Oh - you can use this dressing gown tomorrow morning if you like. It should fit." He gestured to a dark green towelling robe hanging from a hook on the back of the door. "I've got another downstairs."  
  
"Thanks. Night, John."  
  
"Night."  
  
Lestrade lay awake for some time after the door had closed behind John. He could imagine him sliding back into bed beside Sherlock, the pair of them snuggled together and giggling about the sad, old man upstairs, afraid of the dark. Why on Earth had he agreed to come here?  
  
 _'Cause you had nowhere else to go, that's why... And Saint Watson feels sorry for you..._  
  
No, that wasn't fair. John was a good bloke. Lestrade knew John wouldn't say anything to Sherlock about Lestrade's nightmare. He wasn't that sort - and anyway he wouldn't have to. Sherlock would just _know_. Sherlock knew everything. Lestrade had been kidding himself that Sherlock hadn't noticed his true feelings. If it had been anybody else he'd have thought they were taking the opportunity to play Han Solo when Lestrade had tried to choke out his desperate declaration, but Sherlock had probably never even heard of _Star Wars_.  
  
Shit. It was going to be damned awkward, working crime scenes with them when they _both_ knew how he felt about Sherlock - was maybe also starting to feel about John, if he was honest. How could you not fall for a man like that - who came charging in like a pint-sized Rambo in a woolly jumper, taking down bad guys with one hand, dragging your sorry arse out and patching you up with the other?  
  
Heck - why _not_ fancy them both? May as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb and he had just as much chance with John as he did with Sherlock - bugger all. _And look on the bright side, Greg - at least it wasn't your wanking hand that got broken..._  
  
Lestrade pulled his pyjama top closed and drew the covers up under his chin. Like he was going to do that with them both directly downstairs. If they heard him having a nightmare, they'd certainly hear that and he was going to cling on to what little dignity he had left.  
  
He closed his eyes and tried hard not to think of the warmth of those strong hands on his chest... or elsewhere...


	17. The Morning Report

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donovan pops round to 221B with an update...

It was after ten when Lestrade woke the next morning, feeling, if anything, even less rested than when he'd gone to bed.  
  
If it hadn't been for the strong craving for caffeine he would have just closed his eyes and tried to get back to sleep. Instead he hauled himself upright and slipped into the dressing gown John had left him before making his way slowly down the stairs.  
  
He wasn't deliberately trying to be quiet but the wound on his side was still tender so he took things slowly. This allowed him to make out the sound of a heated discussion coming from the floor below.  
  
 _Hello... bit of a domestic?_  
  
Sherlock's voice suddenly carried up the stairs. "I've had enough, John. This is far too frustrating. I'm going to go up there right now."  
  
Lestrade stopped where he was and listened intently.  
  
"Sherlock, we already discussed this," John replied. "Not until his stitches are out - and even then not until I say so."  
  
"Oh come _on_ , John. Lestrade's hardly delicate!"  
  
"No, but he's been through the wringer recently and I think he's still a bit embarrassed about everything. So you're to leave him alone until at least tomorrow - understood?"  
  
Sherlock gave a loud petulant huff and Lestrade heard him throwing himself melodramatically onto the sofa. " _Fine_."  
  
 _Sounds like Sherlock can't wait to kick me out... I must be putting a bit of a damper on his love life..._ Lestrade couldn't help feeling a little bit vindictively pleased about that.  
  
"Look - it's difficult for me too," John said. "I hadn't really thought what it would be like having him staying here, especially after... Wait, is that him up?"  
  
 _Bugger_... Lestrade edged back up a few steps then walked much more carelessly down to the landing and into the kitchen as if he'd only just got up. "Morning, John."  
  
John was sitting in the kitchen. He got to his feet. "Morning, Lestrade. Coffee?"  
  
"Love some, thanks." Lestrade turned to look into the living room. He could just see Sherlock's feet at the end of the sofa. "Morning, Sherlock."  
  
" _Humph_." Sherlock rolled over to face the back of the sofa.  
  
"Ignore him. He's always like this after a case," John said. "And more so since he knows you're not going to be giving him anything new for a few weeks. Did you sleep well?"  
  
Lestrade sat down at the table and looked for a free spot to rest his arm. "Yes, fine thanks. Eventually anyway."  
  
"Bed not too hard?"  
  
"No. I'm just not used to having to sleep on my back." He settled on the most stable looking pile of books between two large beakers of... something he had no wish to know about.  
  
They both looked round as there was a loud knock at the front door. Lestrade looked back at John expectantly but he just smiled and said, "Mrs Hudson'll get it."  
  
Lestrade heard the landlady's soft voice as she answered the door and then the sound of someone coming up the steps to 221B.  
  
"Donovan," Sherlock pronounced to the cushions. "Here for a debrief no doubt."  
  
Donovan spotted Lestrade in the kitchen and nodded to him as she came in. "Morning, sir."  
  
"Donovan," Lestrade responded. He saw her giving him a quick once-over. "Don't worry - he's not chopped me up and eaten me or hidden me under the floorboards - and he's not brainwashed me, either", he quickly continued.  
  
"That you're aware of," Sherlock said, rolling on to his back and stretching. "Anyway there's so little to work with it would be a waste of time."  
  
Donovan glared at the top of Sherlock's head and Lestrade smiled at how normal the world suddenly felt again - for their own bizarre brand of 'normal' anyway.  
  
"So what can I do for you?" Lestrade asked.  
  
Donovan nodded at John as he held up the coffee pot. "Just black thanks, John. First off I came to give you this back - but don't you dare turn it on till you're back at the Yard." She handed him his mobile phone, both of them knowing full well he'd have it on before she even made the front door again.  
  
"Thanks. Do you want the spare one back? It should be in my jacket - unless Sherlock's half-inched it."  
  
"No, there's no rush."  
  
"OK. And?"  
  
Donovan sat down beside him at the table. "We nabbed them all yesterday. They were exactly where Evans had told Sherlock they would run to. You were right about the Geordie, sir - his name's Michael Castle by the way. No love lost between him and the others. He jumped on a deal to grass them up. The older bloke in charge of everything is called Graham Connors. Fraud Squad have been after him for ages. Not just counterfeit money he deals in; bags, clothes, antiques, you name it. Fences plenty of the genuine article as well. Thanks, John." She took the mug from John, looked for somewhere to set it down, quickly gave up and held on to it as she continued. "He denied knowing anything about Prescott's murder but Castle puts him at the scene and said he did nothing to stop Evans even when it was clear he'd gone too far. He was only meant to be roughing Prescott up a bit but things got out of hand."  
  
Lestrade could sympathise all too easily with the late Mr Prescott. "So we've got Evans for Prescott's murder?"  
  
"Yup. Not to mention the attempted murder charge for what he did to you as well, sir. Copped to the lot once Sherlock handed him over and pointed out how we could prove everything."  
  
"Please tell me he didn't come quietly," Lestrade said hopefully.  
  
Donovan grinned. "DI Gregson was in charge and the stupid little sod tried to take him on and make a break for it. Toby just laughed it off, slapped him down and then sat on him."  
  
Lestrade winced. "So how many pieces is he in now?"  
  
"Don't worry, sir. Evans didn't fall down any stairs or anything. We all know you don't approve of that sort of payback."  
  
"Thanks, Sally. I'd hate anyone to get into trouble with the DPS on my account. So, Toby's dealing with my stuff until I'm back?" Lestrade asked.  
  
"Yeah, he's already had a good rant about your 'so-called-filing system' and how poky your office is."  
  
"It's only poky 'cause he's a bloody gorilla."  
  
"I'll tell him you were asking after him, sir."  
  
"Yeah, I've still got two weeks seniority on him - don't let him forget." Lestrade winked as he finished his coffee.  
  
"I'm sure it'll come up at some point, sir." Donovan smiled one of her rare, genuine smiles.  
  
"I don't like Gregson. He insists on having forms for everything," Sherlock muttered from the other room.  
  
"Yeah, well the feeling's mutual," Donovan shot back. "He's already told all of us not to let you anywhere near any of his crime scenes."  
  
Sherlock rumbled something that sounded like "Intolerable."  
  
"There was one other thing..." Donovan said hesitantly, turning back to Lestrade.  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Yeah. Evans said one of the two blokes that came to get you at the warehouse and caught up with him later was armed. The short, blond one." Donovan kept her eyes firmly locked on Lestrade, not so much as glancing at John.  
  
"I don't remember seeing a gun. He must be lying," Lestrade said evenly.  
  
"He says he was shot at."  
  
"Well if Gregson wants to get Forensics to dig through what's left of that building looking for a bullet on the say-so of a psychotic little toerag he's more than welcome. That's his call. I can't see Anderson thanking him for it."  
  
"He thought Evans was just trying to talk himself up. I'll let him know you didn't see it."  
  
"I don't _remember_ seeing it."  
  
Donovan held Lestrade's gaze a moment longer then slowly smiled. "Right." She stood up and held out her empty mug but when John reached for it she drew it back and took his hand instead. "John."  
  
"Sally." John smiled as he shook her hand and then accepted the mug from her.  
  
Donovan stepped into the hallway and paused at the top of the stairs. "Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock swivelled his head up and round to meet her eye. "Sergeant Donovan."  
  
She turned and headed swiftly down the stairs.  
  
Lestrade sat back in his chair and smiled as he heard the front door slam shut behind her. She hadn't called Sherlock "Freak" once, the whole time she was there. He wondered just what had happened to cause the lull in hostilities. Whatever it was, long may it continue...


	18. Cereal, showering and what?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have breakfast and John makes a very unexpected suggestion about Lestrade's shower...

John put Donovan's mug in the sink and turned back to Lestrade. "Do you want any breakfast? We've got Weetabix or Coco Pops if you want some cereal."  
  
"I finished the Coco Pops," Sherlock called through from the other room.  
  
"Then why is the box still in the cupboard?" John huffed. He dug it out, confirmed it was empty and threw the box to one side.  
  
"Couple of Weetabix would be great, thanks," Lestrade said.  
  
John put them in a bowl and handed them to Lestrade, followed by a half-full carton of milk. "Sugar?"  
  
"No, thanks."  
  
Lestrade looked between the two younger men as he crunched his breakfast. Sherlock was still sulking on the sofa and John seemed content to let him get on with it while he made a half-hearted attempt to clear up some of the mess in the kitchen. Something was obviously up; a hint of tension still hung in the air from their earlier row he'd overheard before Sally arrived.  
  
He decided to break the silence. "You not working today, John?"  
  
"No. I arranged a few days off." John sat down and starting eating his own cereal. "Somebody has to be here to protect you from Sherlock's experimenting."  
  
Lestrade eyed the chemistry paraphernalia on the kitchen table. "I wouldn't worry. I know better than to touch anything round here. One time, he had some concoction that turned my hands purple for a week. Still not sure he didn't deliberately spill it."  
  
"Of course I did - and it was nine days, not seven," Sherlock corrected him.  
  
"Right. My mistake." Lestrade raised his eyebrows at John, who grinned back.  
  
"So... you could say Sherlock knows you'll 'dye' for him?" John suggested.  
  
Lestrade groaned. "There really ought to be some law that lets me arrest you for puns that bad."  
  
There was a rustling from the lounge as Sherlock swung his legs round and sat up. "Joking aside, he's quite correct though - you've proved that on several occasions."  
  
Lestrade's face flushed and then got hotter as he grew more embarrassed at being embarrassed. "It's my job. Protecting the public. Even if it's from themselves, like it usually is with you," he snapped at Sherlock.  
  
"Oh yes?" John perked up. "Got some juicy stories for me?"  
  
"No," Lestrade said bluntly. "Sherlock just occasionally does bloody stupid things that could lead to him getting killed or seriously injured and he needs a grown-up to pull his fat from the fire."  
  
"Literally in the case of that arson job in Islington," Sherlock said, quite calmly.  
  
"Yeah, well." _You have someone else watching your back now..._ Lestrade pushed his chair back and stood up, suddenly wanting to put as much distance between himself and this conversation as he could. "I was thinking I might take a shower. Have you got a towel I can use?" he asked John.  
  
John nodded. "There should be one in the airing cupboard at the top of the stairs. I'll get the cling film and be right up."  
  
Lestrade was sure he must have misheard. "Sorry, what?"  
  
"Your arm," John said, looking at the plaster cast Lestrade had temporarily forgotten about. "You can't get it wet. I'll wrap it up in cling film for you and then give you a hand in the shower."  
  
"That's really not necessary, John."  
  
"I'm afraid it is. Sorry."  
  
Sherlock's snort from the sofa clearly indicated he thought John wasn't sorry in the slightest.  
  
"Look," John continued. "You play football and you're in the Police. I play rugby, or I used to, and I was in the Army. Neither of us is going to see anything we haven't seen before, right?"  
  
"I suppose," Lestrade grudgingly admitted.  
  
"Right. I'll be up in a minute."  
  
Lestrade collected a towel from the cupboard and had just hung up his dressing gown on the back of the bathroom door when John lightly tapped on it and came in. He squeezed past Lestrade and put the roll of plastic wrap on top of the toilet cistern.  
  
"Right. I'll put the cling film on your arm and we'll get you scrubbed then I'll do myself. May as well have my own shower at the same time." John hung his dressing gown over Lestrade's.  
  
Lestrade faced the door as John helped him off with his pyjama top then turned back to allow John to carefully wind the roll of cling film around his arm.  
  
"Listen, John..." Lestrade cleared his throat. "I should have done this sooner but I, er, I just wanted to say thanks. For getting me out of that warehouse, I mean."  
  
John blushed. "That's alright, Lestrade. Don't mention it."  
  
"Don't mention it? John, I'd be a greasy smear under that building if it wasn't for you - and without the first aid--"  
  
"Really, Lestrade - it's fine." John looked very uncomfortable.  
  
"Well, thanks anyway," Lestrade said. He couldn't help feeling that he'd said something wrong but couldn't for the life of him figure out what. _Unless_...  
  
"John - what I said to Sherlock..."  
  
"Hmmm?"  
  
"You know - at the warehouse... what I said, tried to say, when I thought..." Lestrade gnawed at his lip, then took a deep breath and said in a rush, "Look - I can't deny I've always fancied Sherlock, but he's with you now and believe me, I've got no intentions of coming between you and him."  
  
"Pity. We were rather hoping you would," Sherlock said from the doorway behind him.  
  
Lestrade had no time to react to Sherlock's voice before he felt Sherlock's chest press against his back - Sherlock's _bare_ chest against his _bare_ back - and Sherlock's hands insinuated themselves around Lestrade's waist.  
  
Lestrade was completely thrown. "W-Would what?"  
  
Sherlock's breath was hot against Lestrade's neck and the edge to that deep, rich voice left absolutely no doubt of his intent.   
  
" _Come_. Between us..."


	19. Compromising Position

Lestrade was amazed he didn't faint, collapse or _prematurely embarrass_ himself right there and then.  
  
"Sherlock..." John said reprovingly.  
  
"I know, John, you said to wait but he's standing here being all... _him_." Sherlock rested his chin on Lestrade's shoulder.  
  
John smiled indulgently at Sherlock. "You are impossible, you know that?"  
  
"Oh, _what_? You're fed up waiting too. And honestly - did you really expect me to sit downstairs and do nothing while you're up here _showering_ with him? You conveniently forgot to mention that was part of your after-care procedures."  
  
Lestrade could feel his heart beating wildly as Sherlock's left hand ghosted up his chest and came to rest over it, just beneath the longest scar. He was still having great difficulty getting any coherent thought from his brain to his mouth. In fact his body seemed to have forgotten how to do anything except remain standing. Even breathing was taking conscious effort.  
  
"Please relax, Greg. There's no need to be alarmed," Sherlock purred.  
  
 _Greg?_ Lestrade finally found his voice - sort of.  "I'm... I'm not alarmed. Just... surprised and... a bit confused."  
  
"Why's that then?" John asked innocently as he stepped forward.  
  
"Mostly because I'm convinced this is some kind of sick joke you two are having at my expense--" Lestrade admitted.  
  
"Patently untrue," Sherlock interrupted. "I never joke."  
  
"And it's, well it's been quite a while... and--" Sherlock's fingers brushed over his nipple. " _Uhhhh_."  
  
Sherlock took advantage of the way Lestrade's head tipped back to nip gently at his neck. "And?"  
  
"And..." John's hands slipped inside the waistband of Lestrade's pyjama trousers at the same time as Sherlock found _that_ spot just below his ear. "Aww, _fuck_."  
  
John chuckled. "No, that's definitely still off the menu until your stitches are out. But I'm sure we can compromise."  
  
Lestrade grabbed John's wrist with his free hand. "Wait! Just... wait."  
  
John stopped. So did Sherlock.  
  
Lestrade tried to collect what was left of his wits. He frowned as he looked at John regarding him patiently. "Really? I mean... Really? You're not winding me up?"  
  
John shook his head. "No, we're not," he reassured him. "We really want this, want _you_. We talked about it after we left you at the hospital. Sherlock..." He paused, considering his words. "Sherlock told me that even though he's had feelings for you for a long time, he'd put them aside for me. He was worried I'd be jealous."  
  
"He... sorry, what?" Lestrade realised Sherlock was standing unnaturally still, though he hadn't moved his hands from Lestrade's chest and waist.  
  
"He's always known how you feel about him and he came to feel the same way about you, but he thought you would think he was just using you to get cases."  
  
 _He'd have been right - and I would have happily been used..._  
  
"So I explained to him that it's entirely possible to love more than one person at a time... and I..." John was starting to blush. "Wouldn't be averse to sharing if it was alright with you. Far from it, in fact."  
  
Lestrade's vocabulary completely failed him again. All he could manage was a bewildered, "Oh."  
  
John moved in a little closer and dropped his voice. "We almost lost you and we both realised that... we would be very upset about that and you wouldn't even have known. You'd have thought you were on your own... and you're not. We don't want you to be. You're too good for that. You deserve to always have someone looking for you and we want that job. Both of us."  
  
"I... I don't..."  
  
"Oh _do_ shut up and let us get on with it." Sherlock resumed his very distracting nibbling at Lestrade's neck.  
  
"Sherlock, stop it," John scolded. "Let Lestrade think for a minute. We talked about this."  
  
"Dull! As if I don't already spend far too much time waiting for his brain to catch up! We all know what the answer is."  
  
"No, we don't. And even if we do, we have to hear it. Lestrade?"  
  
"I think..." Lestrade said slowly, "that if this isn't some bizarre dream or hallucination - hell, even if it _is_ \- I would be totally _nuts_ to turn down an offer like that."  
  
"So that's a yes?" John asked.  
  
Lestrade let go his grip on John's wrist and moved his hand to cup John's face. "I'm still sure I can't possibly be this lucky, but yes, it's a yes - and for God's sake, call me Greg." Lestrade leaned over but was interrupted by an indignant cough from behind him.  
  
John grinned. "Sorry Greg. Sherlock called dibs."  
  
" _Dibs_?"  
  
John nodded, trying not to laugh.  
  
"You're really not helping me stop feeling like some kind of new toy," Lestrade said.  
  
Sherlock put his hands on Lestrade's shoulders and turned him round to face him. "I prefer the term 'plaything'."  
  
Lestrade would have objected to that but suddenly he had a mouthful of Sherlock - which he couldn't object to in the slightest, since it was something he'd dreamed of for years.  
  
Turned out his dreams hadn't even come close...


	20. Even Better Than Expected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade is ganged up on - he doesn't much mind.

Lestrade braced himself for what he knew would happen. Sherlock would charge in like Lestrade was a crime scene he was demanding access to; as if it was his God-given right to be there and be in charge and Lestrade should just let him get on with it. If it meant Lestrade actually got to taste those ridiculously gorgeous Cupid's bow lips, then he was fine with that. He'd had years of beating down his ego for the greater good - doing it for himself would make a nice change.  
  
Except Sherlock was unexpectedly... _hesitant_. He didn't grab or push or make any dominating moves. His hands simply glided down Lestrade's arms then tucked around his waist and rested on Lestrade's sides. His lips barely brushed against Lestrade's as his tongue teased at Lestrade's lips, encouraging Lestrade to open his mouth, rather than forcing his way in. It felt like he was asking, not taking; like Lestrade was sharing, not surrendering.  
  
It felt like the best thing that had happened to Lestrade in a _very_ long time.  
  
Lestrade slid the fingers of his free hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and up into the thick, dark curls, lightly cradling his head and pulling Sherlock towards him as he opened his mouth. There was a twinge of discomfort as their chests met but the overall sensation was one of heat. Sherlock's body was even warmer and smoother than Lestrade had imagined and it felt _so_ good against his. And that mouth - that _clever_ mouth; soft and smiling and hot and deep and God! He _had_ to feel that tongue all over him. Right. The fuck. _Now_...  
  
Lestrade flinched slightly as he felt the soft press of lips to his shoulder and another pair of hands circled his waist from behind. He'd completely forgotten John was even in the room.  
  
John seemed determined to make sure he didn't do it again as he loosened the ties on Lestrade's pyjama trousers then slipped his hands inside, down across Lestrade's hip bones.  
  
Lestrade gasped into Sherlock's mouth as he felt his trousers drop and puddle around his ankles. His rapidly hardening cock bounced free against Sherlock's hip eliciting a deep chuckle from the younger man.  
  
John patted his hand against Lestrade's thigh. He took the hint and lifted his leg so John could push the trouser leg off his foot. He repeated the motion with the other leg and John kicked the trousers away leaving Lestrade standing between John and Sherlock wearing nothing but a grin and a plastic-wrapped cast.  
  
"Shower," John said firmly.  
  
"Doesn't need one. Tastes fine," Sherlock mumbled between kisses. One of his hands started drifting down but stopped when John caught his wrist.  
  
" _Shower_ ," John repeated.  
  
"Better make it a cold one," Lestrade managed, making Sherlock chuckle again.  
  
"I doubt the bath will hold all three of us. John?"  
  
"Not a chance. It'll be a tight enough squeeze with just me and Greg," John said.  
  
"That's exactly what I'm worried about," Sherlock admitted.  
  
"Don't worry, Sherlock. I solemnly promise not to molest Greg. At least, not until we're both back in the same room as you - how's that?"  
  
Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "It'll have to do. Let me sort some stuff out in your room and I'll hop in after you're done."  
  
He swept out the room and across the landing leaving Lestrade wondering what exactly "stuff" entailed.... and where his legs had gone...  
  
"I'm sorry we jumped you like this," John apologised as Lestrade shakily turned round to face him. "Although I'm amazed Sherlock waited this long."  
  
"But I thought he... I mean, he never..."  
  
"Greg, the thing you have to remember about Sherlock - the only really important thing - is that he's an idiot."  
  
Lestrade laughed and then put his hand to his stomach. "Ah - don't make me do that again. I might literally split my sides."  
  
"You sure you're OK?" John asked, a small frown creasing his face.  
  
"Umm, yeah. Yeah, definitely." Lestrade nervously clenched his fingers, fighting the urge to cover himself. He felt suddenly self-conscious about his older, very-much-the-worse-for-wear body. "Just... still a bit stunned, I guess. I mean, you and Sherlock are... I can't believe either of you could be bothered with me when you have each other."  
  
John laughed in disbelief. "God, Sherlock was right - you have no clue how attractive you are, do you? Didn't you just hear Sherlock being worried about leaving me alone with you?"  
  
Lestrade tried to assure John that he knew exactly how attractive he was right now but John bulldozed over him.  
  
"Greg. Shut up. Trust me - from where I'm standing I don't see anything I don't like." He looked Lestrade up and down and Lestrade could see nothing but honest appreciation in his gaze. "We're all going to get showered and then Sherlock and I are going to make you feel a _lot_ better with absolutely no medicines involved. OK?" John pulled his t-shirt up and over his head and dropped it on the floor beside him.  
  
Lestrade's concern about the state of his own body came to a grinding halt as he saw the mess of scar-tissue on John's left shoulder.  
  
"Jesus..." he breathed, hesitantly reaching out to touch it before catching himself and drawing back again.  
  
"It's OK." John shrugged. "Doesn't hurt. Except sometimes when the weather's really damp - but how often does that happen in England?" He grinned at what was clearly a well-practised joke.  
  
Lestrade couldn't take his eyes off it as he pieced together John's injury and recent events. "You... you carried me... with that..."  
  
John blushed. "Like I said. Doesn't hurt that much. Just don't poke it. You can, er, you can feel free to poke me elsewhere though - hard as you like." He smiled cheekily and Lestrade had absolutely no hesitation in stepping forward and kissing him.  
  
He had to grab on to the sink for support when John started kissing him back.  
  
"I'm not hearing the shower yet!" Sherlock bellowed from John's bedroom.  
  
John smiled against Lestrade's mouth, reached behind him and pulled on the power cord for the shower without breaking contact.  
  
When they finally came up for air, Lestrade was breathing hard and convinced only sheer bloody-mindedness was keeping him upright.  
  
John leaned over the bath and pressed the button on the shower to start it before pulling back the curtain. He was smiling his " _I'm so nice. Don't you just want to take me home to meet your mother_?" smile.  
  
Lestrade tried to reconcile that with the fact his tongue had been practically down Lestrade's throat five seconds earlier. "Jesus. You two are going to be the death of me," he groaned.  
  
"Don't worry. I know CPR. You'll be fine."  
  
Lestrade grinned and looked down as John dropped his trousers. "I think I'm going to be a damn sight better than fine."

* * *

  
Greg Lestrade learned three things in the next ten minutes: John Watson might be on the short side but he was definitely _not_ little; being washed by someone else was extremely nice; John Watson was ticklish.  
  
(John learned that with his hair dark with water and slicked back, Greg looked far more like the mischievous young man he'd seen in that photo at Greg's flat - even more so when he laughed.)  
  
Sherlock came back in - naked - as they were rinsing off. "Just leave the water running." He barged past them as they climbed out of the tub.  
  
Greg stood dripping onto the mat and staring unashamedly at Sherlock's backside until John grabbed a towel and threw it at his head.  
  
John picked up another towel and gave himself a brisk rub down before helping Greg get dried a little more carefully. He also unwrapped the plastic film from Greg's plaster cast and dropped it in the bin. He draped both towels over a rail by the radiator and took Greg's hand. "Come on. He won't take much longer. You can enjoy the view again in a minute."  
  
"I can enjoy a different view in the meantime. Always thought you had a gorgeous arse," Greg admitted.  
  
"Flattery will get you everywhere." John pushed open the door to his room.  
  
Sherlock had taken the duvet off the bed and fetched a few more pillows from downstairs. Greg thought he'd possibly also turned up the heating but that might just be his own natural reaction to the - still frankly _completely_ unbelievable - situation.  
  
John pulled him over to the bed and stood back as Greg sat down. "This might be frustrating but you need to try not to move too much - doctor's orders. Don't worry - once you're better, I plan on making sure you get _plenty_ of vigorous exercise but for now me and Sherlock will do all the work, OK?" John pushed against Greg's shoulder and he obliged by lying down flat on the bed. John carefully straddled his hips and Greg groaned as their cocks brushed together.  
  
"I think I could get used to taking doctor's orders."  
  
"That would make one of you. Trying to tell Sherlock what to do is like herding cats."  
  
"I do what I'm told sometimes," Sherlock huffed from the door. He scrunched the towel in handfuls into his hair.  
  
"Mm, when I tie you up and don't give you any other choice," John said.  
  
Greg's mouth went completely dry at the mental images that provoked. John must have heard his quiet gasp because he grinned at Greg and said, "If you're very good, you can help me with Sherlock next time. An extra pair of hands is always useful."  
  
"Can't we restrain Greg? That would make sure he doesn't move," Sherlock suggested.  
  
"No, I'm sure he'll behave himself. Won't you?" John asked.  
  
Greg nodded. "And if I don't, you can always save it for later."  
  
John leaned over and kissed him. "Be _very_ careful what you wish for. We're not at a crime scene or the Yard now. This is _my_ room."  
  
"Right," Greg croaked. He swallowed hard. "Gotcha."  
  
John kissed his way down Greg's body, carefully navigating between injuries. "So we'll try to avoid putting any pressure on your chest but if I remember right, there's absolutely _nothing_ wrong with you below the waist." He slid off to one side of the bed and ran his fingers up the underside of Greg's now fully erect cock.  "Yep. Not a thing."  
  
Sherlock sat down on the other side. "I can't believe _you_ had the nerve to make _me_ promise to share," he scolded John.  
  
"Who's stopping you?" John asked.  
  
They looked at each other then both smiled wickedly, leaned forward and licked up opposite sides of Greg's length. Their mouths met at the top, tongues gently swirling over and around the sensitive head and each other.  
  
" _Christ_." Greg fisted his hand in the sheets and tipped his head back. He couldn't _watch_ that as well as _feel_ it or he wouldn't last another second.  
  
"Mm - similar to you, yet subtly different at the same time," Sherlock noted.  
  
"Well of course he is. What were you expecting? Honey?"  
  
"Don't be ridiculous, John. Anyway, this is _much_ nicer than honey." Sherlock's tongue flicked out and licked another clear drop of pre-cum as it oozed from the tip of Greg's cock.  
  
"I'm... I'm glad you think so," Greg panted. "But shouldn't I... y'know, be wearing something?"  
  
"You had every blood test known to man less than a week ago," John reminded him. "I promise you Sherlock and I are both clean as well so unless you really want to..."  
  
"No. No, that's... that's fine," Greg said hastily.  
  
John pushed himself up on his arms and leaned down to kiss him again. "I love that you asked though. Now shut up and let us carry on with what we're doing."  
  
"Yes, Doctor." Greg let his head fall back into the pile of pillows and quickly learned a fourth thing: two heads are _definitely_ better than one.  
  
Sherlock and John alternated between kissing him, his cock and each other, and their hands were _everywhere_.  
  
Greg knew he wasn't going to last long with this sort of attention being lavished on him. "Oh God. Please... please, let me... let me do something, please. I can't... I can't..."  
  
They both pressed down on his hips and John grabbed the wrist of his free hand, trapping it against the mattress. Sherlock's hand stroked down the side of his face and two of his long fingers pushed into Greg's mouth.  
  
"Yes, you can."  
     " _Shh_. Lie still."  
  
And then Sherlock's wet fingers skimmed across Greg's nipple leaving a cold/hot trail behind them and John's free hand was circling the base of Greg's cock and Sherlock slid his hand under Greg's thigh and he _pushed_ and John _gripped_ and Sherlock _sucked_ and John _licked_ and...  
  
Greg must have screamed or groaned particularly loudly because when his senses came back to him, John's hand was over his mouth and he felt like he'd stopped breathing for five minutes. He stared up at the ceiling, watching spots dancing in front of his vision until John's face hove into sight.  
  
John was grinning but also looked a little anxious. "Alright?"  
  
Greg laughed breathlessly. "And Sherlock says _I_ ask the stupid questions." He looked down expecting to see himself absolutely covered in come but all he could see was Sherlock looking extremely pleased with himself.  
  
" _Much_ better than honey." Sherlock licked his lips - the very picture of the cat that got the cream. He walked himself on his hands up towards Greg's head and leaned down to kiss him.  
  
Greg held up a hand to stop him and Sherlock frowned in confusion.  
  
"Missed a bit," Greg explained. He reached up and swiped his finger across Sherlock's nose.  
  
Sherlock smiled and with deliberate slowness sucked Greg's finger into his mouth and licked it clean.  
  
Greg closed his eyes as Sherlock got the kiss he'd been going for and found it took a bit of an effort to open them again. He blinked a few times trying to clear his head. He couldn't be conking out already - that would be pathetic...

* * *

John smiled fondly as he spotted Greg's drooping eyelids. "Sleepy?" He lay down alongside him and propped his head up on one hand.  
  
"No." The enormous yawn Greg gave immediately after the denial made John chuckle.  
  
"I'm not surprised. Your morning meds will be kicking in nicely about now and teaming up with the flood of neurohormones Sherlock and I just sent through your system."  
  
Sherlock laid down on his other side and reached across Greg's stomach to grip John's cock. "Speaking of which..."  
  
"Not here, Sherlock," John groaned half-heartedly.  
  
"I really don't..." Greg stifled another yawn. "Don't mind."  
  
John reached up and ran his fingers through Lestrade's still damp hair. "I know you don't - but you need to rest now, OK?"  
  
"No, I'm fine, honestly." Greg forced his eyes open again. "And I really, really want to return the favour." He closed his hand over Sherlock's and applied a hint more pressure to the long strokes he was giving John's cock.  
  
"Oh, that is... that is good," John conceded. His eyes fluttered closed and he bit at his bottom lip.  
  
Sherlock got up and lifted himself over Greg's body and behind John's, all without once missing a stroke. He started firmly pressing his erection into the cleft of John's arse and biting at John's ear.  
  
"Want you, John. Want you now."  
  
"Sh-Sherlock, we have to be careful..."  
  
" _Dull_."  
  
"It's not dull, it's - oh God, yeah, that - it's what Greg needs."  
  
"Greg needs a good long snooze while I take you downstairs and fuck this gorgeous arse of yours. You've already bored him to sleep being all _doctor-y_."  
  
John opened his eyes and looked down.  
  
Greg was indeed sound asleep; eyes closed, face relaxed, mouth slightly open and breathing deeply.  
  
John couldn't help but smile at how peaceful he looked.  
  
"Downstairs. _Now_ ," Sherlock growled.  
  
John pushed back against Sherlock. "OK. But let me grab that duvet off the floor first - don't want him getting cold."  He gently lowered the duvet on top of Greg and followed Sherlock out of the room...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally 2 chapters but I think you guys have waited long enough and if I gave you another teaser you'd lynch me! ;)


	21. A Perfect Fit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets his way with John. Greg wakes up and wonders where they've gone.

John had barely cleared the threshold of Sherlock's room before he found himself being thrown onto the bed and pounced upon by a predatory consulting detective. John pulled Sherlock's lips down to meet his then paused before kissing him deeper.  
  
"What?" Sherlock asked at John's disbelieving chuckle.  
  
"You taste of Greg."  
  
"Oh." Sherlock frowned. "Not good?"  
  
John couldn't resist. "No, Sherlock, not good."  
  
Sherlock's face fell. "Right. Well, I said if you changed your mind that was OK. I'm sure he'll understand my first commitment is to you and--"  
  
John grinned and squeezed Sherlock's face between his hands. "Not good, Sherlock - bloody _brilliant_."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I wasn't sure before - I admit it - but I'm not jealous. Not even a little bit. You want us both, you can have us both - and I can have you and Greg and he can have _us_ both."  
  
"So..."  
  
"So, _yes_. Don't worry about it. It was the right thing. I hope it's going to continue being the right thing - even though explaining it to anybody else will be as complicated as..."  
  
"Buggery?" Sherlock wryly suggested.  
  
John laughed. "That's going to be the least complicated thing about it, I suspect."  
  
"Mm," Sherlock ran his fingers down John's sides then slid his hands underneath him and fondled John's arse. "I'm very much looking forward to watching you with him, you know."  
  
"Tell me." John closed his eyes and started stroking his cock but not before he'd seen the wolfish grin on Sherlock's face. Sherlock knew exactly how much his voice turned John on.  
  
"I think... you on your hands and knees with Greg behind you... His hands on your hips, slowly pushing into you..."  
  
John groaned as Sherlock punctuated his words with soft kisses to John's neck.  
  
"Leaving your mouth... free for me... Every thrust Greg makes... pushes me further down your throat."  
  
"Oh god... A spit roast, eh?"  
  
"Is that the term? Charming expression." Sherlock sat back on his knees. "Legs up, please, John."  
  
John hooked his hands behind his thighs as Sherlock reached for the lube. He squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers and started rubbing it over the tight muscle of John's arsehole. His other hand grabbed John's cock.  
  
"Or next time I'm sucking him off you can be taking him from behind. I'll get you both to lean over and slide underneath so I get a close-up view of you fucking him." Sherlock carefully slid one finger inside John. He pushed it in slowly then started working it in and out, moving his other hand on John's cock with the same rhythm. "Maybe I'll see if I can kill two birds with one stone - lick your cock and his arse at the same time. Suck your balls as they slap against him."  
  
" _Christ_. Now Sherlock, _now_ , please. Sod being gentle - just fuck me."  
  
Sherlock grabbed John's legs and pressed the head of his cock against John's entrance. "I do love it when you beg, John." He bore down and John gasped as, in one smooth motion and with a long, satisfied sigh, Sherlock buried himself in John's tight heat.  
  
John dropped his hands. One fisted itself in the bedsheets while the other replaced Sherlock's hand on his cock.  
  
Sherlock pushed John's legs up towards his shoulders, put his hands either side of John's head and propped himself up on them. John was nearly bent double underneath Sherlock as he raised and lowered his hips, grinding them each time he pressed fully against John's arse.  
  
" _F-fuck_ , Sherlock... God. Yes." John forced his eyes open. Sherlock was watching him intently as John had known he would be.  
  
That. That look. Knowing that every single bit of Sherlock's attention was on _him_. That was the big turn-on - and that was what he'd been worried he'd miss if there was someone else in the picture.  
  
John couldn't deny he had experienced a brief moment of longing when he saw Sherlock fix himself on Greg. That loss had been more than compensated for by being able to see not only the look on Sherlock's face, but that on Greg's as well - and _sharing_ Greg with Sherlock, both of them kissing and laughing their way over and around Greg's extremely attractive and responsive body - definitely the right thing.  
  
"What?" Sherlock asked.  
  
John hadn't realised he'd spoken out loud. "Greg - us and Greg - definitely the right thing."  
  
Sherlock smiled.  
  
"Yes, yes, you're brilliant, well done," John congratulated him. "Shut up and fuck me..."  
  


* * *

  
Greg woke up feeling warm and wonderful. If it hadn't been for the fact he was completely naked - and the slight ache in his balls - he'd have been quite prepared to think the whole thing had been a dream.  
  
He glanced over at the bedside clock. Nearly two - he'd been asleep for over an hour.  
  
His stomach gave a loud rumble of complaint to remind him it was lunch time - time to brave the fridge again. Where was that dressing gown? Oh yes, on the hook behind the bathroom door. He grabbed it and stumbled downstairs, awkwardly pulling it on.  
  
No sign of John and Sherlock. Had they gone out? He glanced into the sitting room then - cautiously, remembering previous drugs busts - pushed open the door to Sherlock's room.  
  
Sherlock and John lay sprawled together asleep on the bed in a tangle of limbs. Sherlock was flat on his back; John lay curled against him with his head on Sherlock's chest. They both had that faint sheen and flattened hair stuck to skin that spoke of recent exertion and the air positively _reeked_ of sex.  
  
They looked... perfect. Tired and relaxed and sweaty and messy and fucked out and perfect. Together. The two of them.  
  
Greg couldn't move any further into the room. He was short of breath and his head felt screwed on too tight.  
  
 _What the hell am I doing? Look at them - they're made for each other. I'm like the spare prick at a wedding..._  
  
What had taken place earlier had been _wonderful_ \- but it was just a pity fuck. He didn't really belong here. Who was he kidding?  
  
He grabbed the door handle and turned to pull it closed...  
  
  
"Greg?" John woke up and caught sight of him just as the door started to close again. He looked... sad? Why was that?  
  
"John. Didn't mean to wake you up. Sorry. I'll just..." Greg tilted his head back towards the kitchen.  
  
John sat up and held his hand out to Greg. "Come here."  
  
"No, it's fine. I'll... I came down to get something to eat. Do you... do you want anything?"  
  
"Yes. You. Here." John pointed to the half-inch gap between his body and Sherlock's. "Now," he added, when Greg remained hesitant.  
  
Greg approached the bed with clear reluctance.  
  
John closed his eyes and shook his head as it suddenly hit him. "We left you alone upstairs, didn't we? And then you thought..." He rolled over, off the side of the bed and stood up. "I'm sorry, Greg. We just wanted to let you rest. I should have thought."  
  
"No problem. You had... other things to do. I get it."  
  
"No, you don't. You're not... you're not the appetiser, Greg. Sherlock and I weren't warming up on you for the main event or anything. We should have realised it would be harder for you coming into this..." He waved his hand vaguely between the three of them. "This whatever-it-is than it was for us. Sherlock and I were here already, you're a little behind."  
  
"Story of my life," Greg said with a rueful smile.  
  
"Not any more. Here - take that off and lie down." John gestured to the bed beside Sherlock, who hadn't moved but now had his eyes wide open. "Budge up, Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock huffed but rolled onto his side and scooted across to the far side of the mattress, facing back towards them.  
  
Greg took off his dressing gown and lay down beside Sherlock as John grabbed the bedclothes from the floor. John threw them over the others then climbed in front of Greg, facing away from him, sandwiching him between his body and Sherlock's. "OK? Comfy?" he asked Greg over his shoulder.  
  
"Umm, yeah. Very." Greg rested his cast on John's hip.  
  
"See how well you fit? Bit taller than me, bit shorter than him - that space was made for you."  
  
"You really are hopelessly sentimental, John," Sherlock drawled into the back of Greg's neck.  
  
"That's rich coming from Mr I'll-go-insane-if-I don't-get-to-kiss-him-soon," John shot back.  
  
Sherlock was uncharacteristically quiet.  
  
"Did you really say that?" Greg asked.  
  
"You know I can't stand not knowing things," Sherlock replied.  
  
"Yes, and?"  
  
"I didn't know how you tasted."  
  
"You certainly do now," John sniggered.  
  
"Mmm." Sherlock stuck his nose in behind Greg's ear and inhaled deeply. "And what he smells like when he's aroused."  
  
"I'm not aroused - I'm bloody knackered," Greg protested. "Old man, remember?"  
  
"Liar," Sherlock scoffed.  
  
John felt Sherlock's hand slip over Greg's hip, then between John's buttock and Greg's thigh.  
  
"Sherlock..." Greg whined. "Just because I've... _reloaded_ , doesn't mean I feel up to round two right now."  
  
"Leave him alone, Sherlock."  
  
"Hmmph. _Boring_." Sherlock threw himself backwards out from under the covers and stalked off towards the door. "Not going to lie around here waiting for you two and your stupidly long refractory periods."  
  
The door slammed shut behind him.  
  
"The flouncing is much more effective when he's not naked, isn't it?" Greg asked John.  
  
John roared with laughter. "For once, Detective Inspector, you're not wrong." He rolled over to face Greg. "You know, I hadn't even thought of this."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Sherlock really isn't into _snuggling_." John tried to put all Sherlock's contempt for the concept into that one word. "He'll tolerate it for about ten minutes but if he's awake he wants to be up and doing things. I get the feeling you're not like that."  
  
"Nope. I'm an Olympic-class snuggler, me - or a lazy sod. Take your pick."  
  
"Me too," John admitted. "Quite hard to do on your own though."  
  
"Good job you're not on your own then."  
  
"No, I'm not." John looked straight into Greg's eyes. "How about you, Greg? You on your own?"  
  
Greg smiled and paused before replying quietly, "No. I don't think I am."  
  
John shifted himself forward so their bodies were touching from chest to knee. "Good. Don't forget it." He and Greg kissed, much more slowly than before, enjoying the luxury of being warm and relaxed instead of hot and needy. "Definitely the right thing," John murmured.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
And then Greg's stomach growled again.  
  
They both laughed.  
  
"Lunch?" John asked.  
  
"Brilliant idea."  
  
John helped him up and they headed towards the kitchen...


	22. Epilogues

The door to 221 Baker Street slammed shut.  
  
"It's me," a disembodied voice yelled up the stairs.  
  
Sherlock leapt up from the couch. "Did you get my text?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
" _And_?"  
  
"And I saved it for you," Greg replied as he reached the landing. He held out a shopping bag to Sherlock who snatched it and thrust his hand inside. "Got some right funny looks from the nurses though."  
  
Sherlock pulled out the cast which had been adorning Greg's left arm for the past six weeks. It was covered in complicated mathematical symbols, chemical formulae, random notes and even staves of music that Sherlock had jotted down when it was the nearest writing surface to hand. He turned it over in his hands and let out a loud groan of disappointment. "They've cut right through it! Idiots!"  
  
Greg grinned. "That's how they get it off, Sherlock. There wasn't any way for them to cut it without going through _something_ you'd scribbled on there while I was asleep."  
  
Sherlock threw the cast aside onto the couch with a snort.  
  
"So I got them to take loads of photos before they even touched it." Greg dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out a small digital camera.  
  
Sherlock turned and glared at John as he came through from the kitchen laughing.  
  
"Nothing to do with me," John said. "Great minds must think alike." He turned to Greg and nodded towards his arm. "Any problems?"  
  
"No, completely healed. I just have to do some basic physio to build up the muscles again. _Gripping_ exercises mostly." Greg demonstrated by putting his left hand on John's backside and giving it a firm squeeze.  
  
"Are we ready for an amorous _and_ ambidextrous Greg?" John asked Sherlock.  
  
"I can certainly think of other things we can test his grip strength on," Sherlock replied. "Could lead to some very interesting experiments."  
  
Greg rolled his eyes. "Oh well, if it's for _science_ , who am I to argue?"  
  
"Precisely. Shall we?" Sherlock was already heading for the bedroom.  
  
John started to follow him but stopped when he saw Greg hesitate. "Something wrong?"  
  
Greg dug in his pocket and pulled out a gold ring. "I had to take this off while they removed the cast and then... I wasn't sure if I should put it back on."  
  
"Do you want to?" John asked.  
  
Greg nodded. "I know I'm with you and Sherlock now but--"  
  
John took the ring and pushed it onto Greg's finger. He kept hold of Greg's hand. "But nothing. You loved him and you want to remember him. You think Sherlock and me don't understand that?"  
  
"Sherlock and _I_. And of course we do," Sherlock came back into the room and took Greg's other hand. "Now get in here - I want to take some base measurements so I can compare your left hand and John's right."  
  
Greg laughed and allowed himself to be not-at-all reluctantly dragged into bed again...  
  


* * *

  
And they all lived happily ever after...  
  
Well, no - because real life doesn't work that way - but they did at least live _happier_ ever after.  
  
Greg's stitches came out without incident. Most of the shallower cuts healed invisibly or as near as. He would always have a long thin scar across his left breast but you had to look pretty close for it under the dark hair covering it. The other one under his ribs was more noticeable but no worse than several others he'd already accrued over a long active career.  
  
He was signed off all duties for two weeks and then on desk duty only until his cast came off. Two weeks after that he was declared fit for active service again. If Greg was glad to get back to work, Greg's collegues were overjoyed that he would once more take up the position of principal Sherlock-handler.  
  
John had declared him fit for active duties of a personal nature a week after the stitches came out. In that capacity he shared Sherlock handling duties pretty evenly with John.  
  
Greg kept his flat but on nights when he slept in it - not usually alone - it was in a brand new king-size bed which replaced his saggy old double. The other furniture stayed much the same but there were a few more different brands of toiletries in the bathroom and _two_ photos on top of the TV, a more recent trio joining the older couple.  
  
Some of Sherlock's paperwork somehow migrated to Greg's living room, along with a couple of John's books. After John's birthday they were joined by a console system Sherlock absolutely refused to have at Baker Street. John joked that Sherlock didn't want any sounds of gunfire there that he hadn't caused.  
  
Oddly enough, despite his stated loathing of the "mindless time-wasting device", on most evenings when John and Greg arranged to settle down and shoot terrorists, kill aliens or win the Premiership, Sherlock could be found sitting at the kitchen table, deep in contemplation while the sounds of frantic competition - or even more frantic co-operation - washed over him from the other room. He claimed some brain work was better done in silence, some was not.  
  
Similarly, there frequently seemed to be a perfectly good reason for Greg to drop in on Baker Street of an evening - and if he happened to stay a bit late and ended up sleeping over more often than not, there was nothing wrong with that.  
  
Donovan said nothing, but the first time she urgently needed Greg's input on a case at short notice she came looking for him in Baker Street rather than his own home. He smiled sheepishly at her, expecting some cutting remark about his lack of judgment but all she said - to John - was "Don't keep him up late - may need him in court tomorrow."  
  
John grinned and promised to have him in bed by ten with a mug of Ovaltine.  
  
They were all in bed by nine but sleep only came much later and without the aid of any hot malty drinks...  
  
  
And so they bumped along together quite nicely, each person's excesses tempered now by the moderation of two others instead of just one. Sherlock condescended to eat more when he had two others insisting they would be staying to finish the meal and no exercise was to be taken on an empty stomach; John found the weight of Greg's arm around his waist a very convincing argument to sleep more and worry less about Sherlock; Greg found having someone to talk to at the end of the day did wonders for his own well-being and in its own bizarre way it just... _worked._  
  
So well that, when word came from the Swiss authorities that they'd given up the search, John honestly couldn't imagine how he and Greg could ever have coped without someone else who knew exactly what had been lost...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos! It really does make the hours of headdesking worthwhile!   
> \- Al x


End file.
